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EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Books by the Same Authors 


Car of Destiny 
Chaperon, The 
Golden Silence 
Guests of Hercules 
Heather Moon 
It Happened in Egypt 
Lady Betty Across the Water 
Lightning Conductor, The 
Lightning Conductor Discovers 
America, The 

Lord Loveland Discovers America 
Motor Maid 

My Friend the Chauffeur 
Port of Adventure 
Princess Virginia - 
Rosemary in Search of a Father 
Secret History 
Set in Silver *— 

Soldier of the Legion, A 






“ I can’t believe that the castle of Ham was as striking 
in its untouched magnificence, as now, in the rose-red 
splendour of its ruin!” 


EVERYMAN’S 

LAND 


CrNf & A. M. WILLIAMSON 



Frontis'piece 


Garden City New York 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1919 



COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY 

C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF 
TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, " 
INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN . 



a L 

X X 


COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY 


TO ALL SOLDIERS WHO HAVE FOUGHT 
OR FIGHT FOR EVERYMAN’S LAND AND 
EVERYMAN’S RIGHT; AND TO THOSE 
WHO LOVE FRANCE 







EVERYMAN’S LAND 




I 


; 


i * 


I 




' i 









EVERYMAN’S LAND 


CHAPTER I 

P ADRE, when you died, you left a message for me. 
You asked me to go on writing, if I were in trouble, 
just as I used to write when you were on earth. I 
used to “confess, ” and you used to advise. Also you used 
to scold. How you used to scold ! I am going to do now 
what you asked, in that message. 

I shall never forget how you packed me off to school at 
Brighton, and Brian to Westward Ho! the year father 
died and left us to you — the most troublesome legacy a 
poor bachelor parson ever had ! I’d made up my mind to 
hate England. Brian couldn’t hate anything or anybody; 
dreamers don’t know how to hate: and I wanted to hate 
you for sending us there. I wanted to be hated and mis- 
understood. I disguised myself as a Leprechaun and 
sulked; but it didn’t work where you were concerned. 
You understood me as no one else ever could — or will, I 
believe. You taught me something about life, and to see 
that people are much the same all over the world, if you 
“take them by the heart. ” 

You took me by the heart, and you held me by it, from 
the time I was twelve till the time when you gave your life 
for your countiy. Ten years! When I tell them ove^ 
S 


4 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


now, as a nun tells the beads of her rosary, I realize what 
good years they were, and how their goodness — with such 
goodness as I had in me to face them — came through 
you. 

Even after you died, you seemed to be near, with en- 
couragement and advice. Remembering how pleased you 
were, when I decided to train as a nurse, added later to the 
sense of your nearness, because I felt you would rejoice 
when I was able to be of real use. It was only after you 
went that my work began to count, but I was sure you 
knew. I could hear your voice say, “Good girl! Hurrah 
for you ! ” when I got the gold medal for nursing the conta- 
gious cases; your dear old Irish voice, as it used to say the 
same words when I brought you my school prizes. 

Perhaps I was “ a good girl. ” Anyhow, I was a good 
nurse. Not that I deserved much credit! Brian was 
fighting, and in danger day and night. You were gone; 
and I was glad to be a soldier in my way, with never a 
minute to think of myself. Besides, somehow I wasn’t one 
bit afraid. I loved the work. But, Padre mio^ I am not a 
good girl now. I’m a wicked girl, wickeder than you or 
I ever dreamed it was in me to be, at my worst. Yet if 
your spirit should appear as I write, to warn me that I’m 
sinning an unpardonable sin, I should go on sinning it. 

For one thing, it’s for Brian, twin brother of my body, 
twin brother of my heart. For another thing, it’s too 
late to tm-n back. There’s a door that has slammed shut 
behind me. 

Now, I’ll begin and tell you everything exactly as it 
happened. Many a “confession-letter” I’ve begun in 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


5 


just these words, but never one like this. I don’t deserve 
that it should bring me the heartease which used to come. 
But the thought of you is my star in darkness. Brian is 
the last person to whom I can speak, because above all 
things I want him to be happy. On earth there is no one 
else. Beyond the earth there is — jjou. 

When Brian was wounded, they expected him to die, and 
he was asking for me. The telegram came one day when 
we had all been rather overworked in the hospital, and 
I was feeling ready to drop. I must only] have imagined 
my tiredness though, for when I heard about Brian I 
grew suddenly strong as steel. I was given leave, and 
disinfected, and purified as thoroughly as Esther when 
she was being made worthy of Ahasuerus. Then I 
dashed off to catch the first train going north. 

St. Raphael was our railway station, but I hadn’t seen 
the place since I took up work in the Hopital des Epide- 
mies. That was many months before; and meanwhile a 
training-school for American aviators had been started at 
St. Raphael. News of its progress had drifted to our 
ears, but of course the men weren’t allowed to come within 
a mile of us: we were too contagious. They had sent 
presents, though — presents of money, and one grand 
gift had burst upon us from a young millionaire whose 
father’s name is known everywhere. He sent a cheque 
for a sum so big that we nurses were nearly knocked down 
by the size of it. With it was enclosed a request that 
the money should be used to put wire-nettings in all 
windows and doors, and to build a roofed loggia for con- 
valescents. If there were anything left over, we might 
buy deck-chairs and air-pillows. Of course it was easy 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


for any one to know that we needed all these things. Our 
lack was notorious. We sent a much disinfected, carbolic- 
smelling round robin of thanks to “James W. Beckett, 
Junior,” son of the western railway king. 

As I drove to the gare of St. Raphael, I thought of the 
kind boys who had helped our poor poiluSy and especially 
of James Beckett. Whether he were still at the aviation 
camp, or had finished his training and gone to the front, I 
didn’t know: but I wafted a blessing to our benefactor. I 
little dreamed then of the unforgivable injury I was fated 
to do him! You see. Padre, I use the word fated 
That’s because I’ve turned coward. I try to pretend that 
fate has been too strong for me. But down deep I know 
you were right when you said, “Our characters carve our 
fate.” 

It was a long journey from the south to the north, where 
Brian was, for in war-days trains do what they like 
and what nobody else likes. I travelled for three days 
and nights, and when I came to my journey’s end, instead 
of Brian being dead as I’d seen him in a hundred hide- 
ous dreams, the doctors held out hope that he might 
live. They told me this to give me courage, before 
they broke the news that he would be blind. I sup- 
pose they thought I’d be so thankful to keep my 
brother at any price, that I should hardly feel the shock. 
But I wasn’t thankful. I wasn’t ! The price seemed too 
big. I judged Brian by myself — Brian, who so worshipped 
beauty that I used to call him “Phidias!” I was sure 
he would rather have gone out of this world whose face 
he’d loved, than stay in it without eyes for its radiant 
smile. But there I made a great mistake. Brian was 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


7 


magnificent. Perhaps you would have known what to 
expect of him better than I knew. 

Where you are, you will understand why he did not 
despair. I couldn’t understand then, and I scarcely can 
now, though living with my blind Brian is teaching me 
lessons I feel unworthy to learn. It was he who com- 
forted me, not I him. He said that all the beauty of 
earth was his already, and nothing could take it away. 
He wouldn’t let it be taken away! He said that sight 
was first given to all created creatures in the form of a 
desire to see, desire so intense that with the developing 
faculty of sight, animals developed eyes for its concen- 
tration. He reminded me how in dreams, and even in 
thoughts — if they’re vivid enough — we see as distinctly 
with our brains as with our eyes. He said he meant to 
make a wonderful world for himself with this vision of 
the brain and soul. He intended to develop the power, so 
that he would gain more than he had lost, and I must help 
him. 

Of course I promised to help all I could; but there was 
death in my heart. I remembered our gorgeous holiday 
together before the war, tramping through France, Brian 
painting those lovely “impressions” of his, which made 
him money and something like fame. And oh, I remem- 
bered not only that such happy holidays were over, but 
that soon there would be no more money for our bare 
living ! 

We were always so poor, that church mice were pluto- 
crats compared to us. At least they need pay no rent, and 
have to buy no clothes ! I’m sure, if the truth were known, 
the money Father left for our education and bringing up 


8 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


was gone before we began to support ourselves, though you 
never let us guess we were living on you. As I sat and 
listened to Brian talk of our future, my very bones seemed 
to melt. The only thing I’ve been trained to do well is to 
nurse. I wasn’t a bad nurse when the war began. I’m an 
exeellent nurse now. But it’s Brian’s nurse I must be. 
I saw that, in the first hour after the news was broken, and 
our two lives broken with it. I saw that, with me unable 
to earn a penny, and Brian’s occupation gone with his 
sight, we were about as helpless as a pair of sparrows with 
their wings clipped. 

If Brian in his secret soul had any such thoughts, per- 
haps he had faith to believe that not a sparrow can fall, 
unless its fall is appointed by God. Anyhow, he said never 
a word about ways and means, except to mention cheer- 
fully that he had “heaps of pay saved up,” nearly thirty 
pounds. Of course I answered that I was rich, too. But 
I didn’t go into details. I was afraid even Brian’s optim- 
ism might be dashed if I did. Padre, my worldly wealth 
consisted of five French bank notes of a hundred francs 
each, and a few horrible little extra scraps of war-paper 
and copper. 

The hospital where Brian lay was near the front, in the 
remains of a town the British had won back from the 
Germans. I called the place Crucifix Corner: but God 
knows we are all at Crucifix Corner now! I lodged in a 
hotel that had been half knocked down by a bomb, and 
patched up for occupation. As soon as Brian was able to 
be moved, the doctor wanted him to go to Paris to an 
American brain specialist who had lately come over and 
made astonishing cures. Brian’s blindness was due to 


EVERYMAN LAND 


9 


paralysis of the optic nerve; but this American — Cuyler — 
had performed spine and brain operations which had 
restored sight in two similar cases. There might be a 
hundredth chance for my brother. 

Of course I said it would be possible to take Brian 
to Paris. I’d have made it possible if I’d had to sell my 
hair to do it; and you know my curly black mop of hair 
was always my pet vanity. Brian being a soldier, he 
could have the operation free, if Doctor Cuyler considered 
it wise to operate; but — as our man warned me — there 
were ninety-nine chances to one against success : and at all 
events there would be a lot of expenses in the immediate 
future. 

I sent in my resignation to the dear Hopital des Epi- 
demics, explaining my reasons: and presently Brian and 
I set out for Paris by easy stages. The cap was put on 
the climax for me by remembering how he and I had 
walked over that very ground three years before, in the 
sunshine of life and summer. Brian too thought of the 
I past, but not in bitterness. I hid my anguish from him, 
1 but it gnawed the heart of me with the teeth of a rat. I 
^ couldn’t see what Brian had ever done to deserve such a 
fate as his, and I began to feel wicked, wicked. It seemed 
that destiny had built up a high prison wall in front of my 
brother and me, and I had a wild impulse to kick and claw 
at it, though I knew I couldn’t pull it down. 

When we arrived in Paris, Doctor Cuyler saw us at 
once; but his opinion added another pile of flinty black 
blocks to the prison wall. He thought that there would 
be no hope from an operation. If there were any hope at 
all (he couldn’t say there was) it lay in waiting, resting. 


10 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


and building up Brian’s shattered health. After months 
of perfect peace, it was just on the cards that sight might 
come back of itself, suddenly and unexpectedly, in a 
moment. We were advised to live in the country, and 
Doctor Cuyler suggested that it would be well for my 
brother to have surroundings with agreeable occupation 
for the mind. If he were a musician he must have a 
piano. There ought to be a garden for him to walk in 
and even work in. Motoring, with the slight vibration 
of a good car, would be particularly beneficial a little later 
on. I suppose we must have looked to Doctor Cuyler 
like millionaires, for he didn’t appear to dream that 
there could be the slightest difficulty in carrying out liig 
programme. 

I sat listening with the calm mien of one to whom money 
comes as air comes to the lungs; but behind my face the 
wildest thoughts were raging. You’ve sometimes seen a 
row of tall motionless pines, the calmest, stateliest things 
on earth, screening with their branches the mad white 
rush of a cataract. My brain felt like such a screened 
cataract. 

Except for his blindness, by this time Brian was too 
well for a hospital. We were at the small, cheap hotel on 
“ la rive gauche'* where we’d stayed and been happy three ; 
years ago, before starting on our holiday trip. When , 
we came back after the interview with Doctor Cuyler, , 
Brian was looking done up, and I persuaded him to lie i 
down and rest. No one else could have slept, after so i 
heavy a blow of disappointment, without a drug, but ' 
Brian is a law unto himself. He said if I would sit by ' 
him and read, he’d feel at peace, and would drop off into ?. j 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


11 


doze. * It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and I hadn’t 
glanced yet at the newspaper we had bought in the 
morning. I took it up, to please Brian with the rustling 
of the pages, not expecting to concentrate upon a line 
but instantly my eyes were caught by a name I knew. 

“Tragic Romance of Millionaire’s Family,” I read. 
“James W. Beckett brings his wife to France and Reads 
Newspaper Notice of Only Son’s Death.” 

This was the double-line, big-lettered heading of a half 
column on the front page; and it brought to my mind a 
picture. I saw a group of nurses gazing over each other’s 
shoulders at a blue cheque. It was a cheque for six 
thousand francs, signed in a clear, strong hand, “James 
W. Beckett, Junior.” 

So he was dead, that generous boy, to whom our hearts 
had gone out in gratitude ! It could not be very long since 
he had finished his training at St. Raphael and begun 
work at the front. What a waste of splendid material it 
seemed, that he should have been swept away so soon ! 

I read on, and from my own misery I had an extra pang 
to spare for James Beckett, Senior, and his wife. 

Someone had contrived to tear a fragmentary interview 
from the “bereaved railway magnate,” as he was called in 
the potted phrase of the journalist. Apparently the poor, 
trapped man had been too soft-hearted or too dazed with 
grief to put up a forceful resistance, and the reporter had 
been quick to seize his advantage. 

He had learned that Mr. and Mrs. James W. Beckett, 
Senior, had nearly died of homesickness for their son. 
They had thought of “running across to surprise Jimmy.” 
And then a letter had come from him saying that in a fort- 


12 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


night his training would be over. He was to be granted 
eight days’ leave, which he didn’t particularly want, 
since he couldn’t spend it with them; and immediately 
after he would go to the front. 

“We made up our minds that Jimmy should spend that 
leave of his with us,” the old man had said. “We got 
our papers in a hurry and engaged cabins on the first 
boat that was sailing. Unluckily there wasn’t one for 
nearly a week, but we did the best we could. When every- 
thing was fixed up, I wired Jimmy to meet us at the Ritz, in 
Paris. We had a little breeze with a U-boat, and we ran 
into some bad weather which made my wife pretty sick, 
but nothing mattered to us except the delay, we were so 
crazy to see the boy. At Bordeaux a letter from him was 
waiting. It told how he was just as crazy to see us, but 
we’d only have twenty-four hours together, as his leave 
and orders for the front had both been advanced. The 
delay at sea had cost a day, and that seemed like hard 
lines, as we should reach Paris with no more than time to 
wish the lad God-speed. But in the train, when we came 
to look at the date, we saw that we’d miscalculated. 
Unless Jimmy’d been able to get extra leave we’d miss 
him altogether. His mother said that would be too bad 
to be true. We hoped and prayed to find him at the Ritz. 
Instead, we found news that he had fallen in his first 
battle.” 

The interviewer went on, upon his own account, to 
praise “Jimmy” Beckett. He described him as a young 
man of twenty-seven, “of singularly engaging manner 
and handsome appearance; a graduate with high honours 
from Harvard, an all-round sportsman and popular with a 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


13 


large circle of friends, but fortunately leaving neither a wife 
nor a fiancee behind him in America.” The newly qualified 
aviator had, indeed, fallen in his first battle : but according 
to the writer it had been a battle of astonishing glory for a 
beginner. Single-handed he had engaged four enemy 
machines, manoeuvring his own little Nieuport in a way 
to excite the highest admiration and even surprise in all 
spectators. Two out of the four German ’planes he had 
brought down over the French lines; and was in chase of 
the third, flying low above the German trenches, when two 
new Fokkers appeared on the scene and attacked him. 
His plane crashed to earth in flames, and a short time after, 
prisoners had brought news of his death. 

“Mr. and Mrs. James W. Beckett will have the sym- 
pathy of all Europe as well as their native land, in these 
tragic circumstances,” the journalist ended his story with a 
final flourish. “If such grief could be assuaged, pride in 
the gallant death of their gallant son might be a panacea.” 

“As if you could make pride into a balm for broken 
hearts!” I said to myself in scorn of this flowery 
eloquence. For a few minutes I forgot my own plight 
to pity these people whom I had never seen. The Paris 
Daily Messenger slid off my lap on to the floor, and dropped 
with the back page up. When I had glanced toward the 
bed, and seen that Brian still slept, my eyes fell on the 
paper again. The top part of the last page is always 
devoted to military snapshots, and a face smiled up at 
me from it — a face I had seen once and never forgotten. 

My heart gave a jump. Padre, because the one tiny, 
abbreviated dream-romance of my life came from the 
original of that photograph. Although the man I knew 


14 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


(if people can know each other in a day’s acquaintance)' 
had been en civile, and this one was in aviator’s uniform, 
I was sure they were the same. And even before I’d 
snatched up the paper to read what was printed under the 
picture, something — the wonderful inner Something 
that’s never wrong — told me I was looking at a portrait of 
Jimmy Beckett. 


CHAPTER n 


I NEVER mentioned my one-day romance to anybody. 
Only very silly, sentimental girls would put such an 
episode into words, and flatter themselves by calling 
it a romance. But now that you and Jimmy Beckett 
have both given your lives for the great cause, and are in 
the same mysterious Beyond while I’m still down here at 
Crucifix Corner, I can tell you the story. If you and he 
meet, it may make it easier for him to forgive me the thing 
I have done. 

When Brian and I were having that great summer holi- 
day of ours, the year before the war — one day we were in a 
delicious village near a cathedral town on the Belgian 
border. A piece of luck had fallen in our way, like a 
ripe apple tumbling off a tree. A rich Parisian and his 
wife came motoring along, and stopped out of sheer curi- 
osity to look at a picture Brian was painting, under a 
white umbrella near the roadside. I was not with him. I 
think I must have been in the garden of our quaint old 
hotel by the canal side, writing letters — probably one 
to you; but the couple took such a fancy to Brian’s “im- 
pression,” that they offered to buy it. The bargain was 
struck, there and then. Two days later arrived a tele- 
gram from Paris asking for another picture to “match” the 
first at the same price. I advised Brian to choose out 
two or three sketches for the people to select from, and 
15 


16 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


carry them to Paris himself, rather than trust the post. 
He went; and it was on the one day of his absence that 
my romance happened. 

Ours was a friendly little hotel, with a darling landlady, 
who was almost as much interested in Brian and me as if 
she’d been our foster-mother. The morning after Brian 
left, she came waddling out to the adorable, earwiggy, rose- 
covered summer-house that I’d annexed as a private sitting 
room. “Mademoiselle,” she breathlessly announced, 
“there is a young millionaire of a monsieur Anglais or 
Americain just arrived. What a pity he should be wasted 
because Monsieur your brother has gone ! I am sure if he 
could but see one of the exquisite pictures he would wish 
to buy all!” 

“How do you know that the monsieur is a millionaire, 
and what makes you think he would care about pictures?’' 
I enquired. 

“I know he is a millionaire because he has come in one 
of those grand automobiles which only millionaires ever 
have. And I think he cares for pictures because the 
first thing he did when he came into the hall was to stare 
at the old prints on the wall. He praised the two best 
which the real artists always praise, and complimented 
me on owning them” the dear creature explained. “Be- 
sides, he is in this neighbourhood expressly to see the 
cathedral; and monsieur your brother has made a most 
beautiful sketch of the cathedral. It is now in his port- 
folio. Is there nothing we can do? I have already 
induced the monsieur to drink a glass of milk while I have 
come to consult Mademoiselle.” 

I thought hard for a minute, because it would be grand 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


17 


if I could say when Brian came back, “I have sold your 
cathedral for you.” But I might have saved myself 
brain fag. Madame Mounet had settled everything 
in her head, and was merely playing me, like a foolish 
fish. 

“What I have thought of is this,” she said. “I told 
the monsieur that he could see something better than my 
prints if he would give himself the pain of waiting till I 
could fetch the key of a room where an artist-client of ours 
has a marvellous exhibition. There is no such room yet, 
but there can be, and the exhibition can be, too, if Ma- 
demoiselle will make haste to pin her brother’s pictures 
to the walls of the yellow salon. With a hammer and 
a few tacks — voila the thing is done. What does Ma- 
demoiselle say?” 

Mademoiselle said “Yes — ^yes!” to her part of the pro- 
gramme. But what of the millionaire monsieur? Would 
he not balk ? W ould he not refuse to be bothered ? 

Madame was absolutely confident that he would not do 
these disappointing things. She was so confident that I 
vaguely suspected she had something up her sleeve: but 
time pressed, and instead of Sherlock Holmesing I darted 
to my work. Afterward she confessed, with pride rather 
than repentance. She described graphically how the 
face of the monsieur had fallen when she asked him to 
look at an exhibition of pictures; how he had begun to 
make an excuse that he must be off at once to the cathe- 
dral; and how she had ventured to cut him short by re- 
marking, “Mademoiselle the sister of the artist, she who 
will show the work, ah, it is a jeune fille of the most ro- 
mantic beauty!” On hearing this, the monsieur had said 


18 EVERYMAN’S LAND 

no more about the cathedral, but had ordered the glass 
of milk. 

In fifteen minutes the exhibition (consisting of six 
sketches!) was ready in the showroom of the hotel, the 
yellow salon which had been occupied as a bedchamber one 
night by the Empress Eugenie, and was always kept locked 
except on gala occasions. I, not knowing how I had been 
over-praised to the audience, was also ready, quivering 
with the haste I had made in pinning up the pictures and 
opening the musty, close room to the air. Then came in 
a young man. 

As I write. Padre, I am back again in that salon jaune, 
and he is walking in at the door, pausing a second on the 
threshold at sight of me. I will give you the little play in 
one act. We smile. The hero of the comedy-drama has a 
rather big mouth, and such white teeth that his smile, in 
his brown face, is a lightning-flash at dusk. It is a thin 
face with two dimples that make lines when he laughs. 
His eyes are gray and long, with the eagle-look that knows 
far spaces; deep-set eyes under straight black brows, 
drawn low. His lashes are black, too, but his short 
crinkly hair is brown. He has a good square forehead, and 
a high nose like an Indian’s. He is tall, and has one of 
those lean, lanky loose-jointed figures that crack tennis- 
players and polo men have. I like him at once, and I think 
he likes me, for his eyes light up; and just for an instant 
there’s a feeling as if we looked through clear windows 
into each other’s souls. It is almost frightening, that 
effect! 

I begin to talk, to shake off an odd embarrassment. 

“Madame Mounet tells me you want to see my brother’s 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 19 

pictures,” I say. “Here are a few sketches. He has 
taken all the rest worth looking at to Paris.” 

“It’s good of you to let me come in,” the hero of the 
play answers. Instantly I know he’s not English. He 
has one of those nice American voices, with a slight 
drawl, that somehow sound extraordinarily frank. I 
don’t speculate about his name. I don’t stop to wonder 
who he is. I think only of what he is. I forget that 
Madame has exploited him as a millionaire. I don’t care 
whether or not he buys a picture. I want nothing, ex- 
cept the pleasure of talking with him, and seeing how he 
looks at me. 

I mumble some polite nonsense in return for his. He 
gazes at Brian’s water-colours and admires them. Then 
he turns from the pictures to me. We discuss the sketches 
and the scenes they represent. “Oh, have you been 
there ? ” “ Why, I was at that place a week ago ! ” “ How 

odd!” “We must have missed each other by a day.” 
And we drift into gossip about ourselves. Still we don’t 
come to the subject of names. Names seem to be of 
no importance. They belong to the world of conven- 
tions. 

We talk and talk — mostly of France, and our travels, 
and pictures and books we love; but our eyes speak of 
other things. I feel that his are saying, “You are beau- 
tiful!” Mine answer, “I’m glad you think that. Why 
do you seem so different to me from other people? ” Then 
suddenly, there’s a look too long between us. “ I wish my 
brother were here to explain his pictures!” I cry; though 
I don’t wish it at all. It is only that I must break the 
silence. 


20 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


This brings us back to the business in hand. He says, 
“May I really buy one of these sketches ? ” 

“Are you sure you want to? ” I laugh. 

“Sure!” he answers. And I never heard that word 
sound so nice, even in my own dear Ireland. 

He chooses the cathedral — which he hasn’t visited yet. 
Do I know the price my brother has decided on? With 
that question I discover that he has Madame Mounet’s 
version of our name. Brian and I have laughed dozens of 
laughs at her way of pronouncing O’Malley. Ommalee'^ 
we are for her, and “Mees OmmaW” she has made me for 
her millionaire. For fun, I don’t correct him. Let him 
find out for himself who we really are! I say that my 
brother hasn’t fixed a price; but would six hundred francs 
seem very high? The man considers it ridiculously low. 
He refuses to pay less than twice that sum. Even so, he 
argues he will be cheating us, and getting me into hot 
water when my brother comes. We almost quarrel, and 
at last the hero has his way. He strikes me as one who 
is used to that ! 

When the matter is settled, an odd look passes over his 
face. I wonder if he has changed his mind, and doesn’t 
know how to tell me his trouble. Something is worrying 
him; that is clear. Just as I’m ready to make things 
easy, with a question, he laughs. 

“I’m going to take you into my confidence,” he says, 
“and tell you a story — about myself. In Paris, before I 
started on this tour, a friend of mine gave a man’s dinner 
for me. He and the other chaps were chaffing because — 
oh, because of a silly argument we got into about — life in 
general, and mine in particular. On the strength of it 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


n 


my chum bet me a thing he knew I wanted, that I couldn’t 
go through my trip under an assumed name. I bet I 
could, and would. I bet a thing I want to keep. That’s 
the silly situation. I hate not telling you my real 
name, and signing a cheque for your brother. But I’ve 
stuck it out for four weeks, and the bet has only two more 
to run. I’m calling myself Jim Wyndham. It’s only my 
surname I’ve dropped for the bet. The rest is mine. 
May I pay for the picture in cash — and may I come back 
here, or wherever you are on the fifteenth day from now, 
and introduce myself properly? Or — ^you’ve only to 
speak the word, and I’ll throw over the whole footling 
business this minute, and ’” 

I cut in, to say that I won't speak the word, and he 
mustn’t throw the business over. It is quite amusing I 
tell him, and I hope he’ll win his bet. As for the picture 
— ^he may pay as he chooses. But about the proper 
introduction — Heaven knows where I shall be in a 
fortnight. My brother loves to make up his mind the 
night beforehand, where to go next. We are a pair of 
tramps. 

“You don’t do your tramping on foot? ” 

“Indeed we do! We haven’t seen a railway station 
since our first day out from Paris. We stop one day in a 
place we don’t care for: three in a place we like: a week or 
more in a place we love." 

“Then at that rate you won’t have got far in fifteen 
days. I know the direction you’ve come from by what 
you’ve told me, and your brother’s sketches. You 
v/ouldn’t be here on the border of Belgium if you didn’t 
ni.ii'i to cross the frontier.” 


22 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


‘*0h, we shall cross it, of course. But where we shall go 
when we get across is another question.” 

“I’ll find the answer, and I’ll find you,” he flings at me 
with a smile of defiance. 

“Why should you give yourself trouble? ” 

“To — see some more of your brother’s pictures,” he 
says gravely. I know that he wishes to see me, not the 
pictures, and he knows that I know; but I let it go at that. 

When the sketch has been wrapped up between card- 
boards, and the twelve hundred francs placed carelessly 
on a table, there seems no reason why Mr. Jim Wyndham 
shouldn’t start for the cathedral. But he suddenly de- 
cides that the way of wisdom is to eat first, and begs me 
to lunch with him. “Do, please,^' he begs, “just to show 
you’re not offended with my false pretences.” 

I yearn to say yes, and don’t see why I shouldn’t; so I 
do. We have dSjeuner together in the summer-house 
where Brian and I always eat. We chat about a million 
things. We linger over our coffee, and I smoke two or 
three of his gold- tipped Egyptians. When we suppose 
an hour has gone by, at most, behold, it is half -past four! 
I tell him he must start : he will be too late for the cathedral 
at its best. He says, “ Hang the cathedral ! ” and refuses to 
stir unless I promise to dine with him when he comes back. 

“You mean in a fortnight?” I ask. “Probably we 
shan’t be here.” 

“I mean this evening.” 

“But — you’re not coming back! You’re going another 
way. You told me ” 

“Ah, that was before we were friends. Of course I’m 
coming back. I’d like to stay to-morrow, and ” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 23 

“You certainly must not! I won’t dine with you to- 
night if you do.” 

“Will you if I don’t. 

“Perhaps.” 

“Then I’ll order the dinner before I start for the cathe- 
dral. I want it to be a perfect one.” 

“But — I’ve said only perhaps.” 

“Don’t you want to pour a little honest gold into poor 
old Madame Mounet’s pocket.^ ” 

“Ye-es.” 

“If so, you mustn’t chase away her customers.” 

“ For her sake, the dinner is a bargain ! ” 

“Not the least bit for my sake? ” 

“Oh, but yes! I’ve enjoyed our talk. And you’ve 
been so nice about my brother’s pictures.” 

So it is settled. I put on my prettiest dress, white mus- 
lin; with some fresh red roses Madame Mounet brings 
me; and the dinner- table in the summer-house is a picture, 
with pink Chinese lanterns, pink-shaded candles, and 
pink geraniums. Madame won’t decorate with roses 
because she explains, roses anywhere except on my 
toilette/* spoil the unique effect of Mademoiselle.” 

The little inn on the canal-side buzzes with excitement. 
Not within the memory of man or woman has there been 
so important a client as Mr. Jim Wyndham. Most 
motoring millionaires dash by in a cloud of dust to the 
cathedral town, where a smart modern hotel has been 
run up to cater for tourists. This magnificent Monsieur 
Americain engages the “suite of the Empress Eugenie,” 
as it grandly advertises itself, for his own use and that of 
his chauffeur, merely to bathe in, and rest in, though they 


24 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


are not to stay the night. And the dinner ordered will 
enable Madame to show what she can do, a chance she 
rarely gets from cheeseparing customers, like Brian and 
me, and others of our ilk. 

I am determined not to betray my childish eagerness by 
being first at the rendezvous. I keep to my hot room, 
until I spy a tall young figure of a man in evening dress 
striding toward the arbour. To see this sight, I have to 
be at my window; but I hide behind a white curtain and a 
screen of wistaria and roses. I count sixty before I go 
down. I walk slowly. I stop and examine fiowers in the 
garden. I could catch a wonderful gold butterfly, but per- 
haps it is as happy as I am. I wouldn’t take its life for 
anything on earth! As I watch it flutter away, my host 
comes out of the arbour to meet me. 

We pass two exquisite hours in each other’s company. 
I recall each subject on which we touch and even the words 
we speak, as if all were written in a journal. The air is so 
clear and still that we can hear the famous chimes of the 
cathedral clock, far away, in the town that is a bank of 
blue haze on the horizon. At half -past nine I begin to 
tell my host that he must go, but he does not obey till 
after ten . Then at last he takes my hand f or good-bye — no , 
au revoir: he will not say good-bye! “In two weeks,” 
he repeats, “we shall meet again. I shall have won my 
bet, and I shall bring you the thing I win.” 

“ I won’t take it ! ” I laugh. 

“ Wait till you see it, before you make sure.” 

“I’m not even sure yet of seeing you,” I remind 
him. 

“You may be sure if I’m alive. I shall scour the coun- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 25 

try for miles around to find you. I shall succeed — unless 
I’m dead.” 

All this time he had been holding my hand, while I have 
pretended to be unconscious of the fact. Suddenly I 
seem to remember, and reluctantly he lets my fingers slip 
through his. 

We bid each other adieu in the arbour. I do not go to 
“see him off,” and I keep the picture of Jim Wyndham 
under the roof of roses, in the moon- and candle-light. 

Just so I have kept it for more than three years; for we 
never met again. And now that I’ve seen the photograph 
of Jimmy Beckett, I know that we never shall meet. 

Why he did not find us when the fortnight of his bet was 
over I can’t imagine. It seems that, if he tried, he must 
have come upon our tracks, for we travelled scarcely more 
than twenty miles in the two weeks. Perhaps he changed 
his mind, and did not try. Perhaps he feared that my 
“romantic beauty” might lose its romance, when seen for 
the second time. Something like this must be the ex- 
planation; and I confess to you. Padre, that the failure of 
the prince to keep our tryst was the biggest disappointment 
and the sharpest humiliation of my life. It took most of 
the conceit out of me, and since then I’ve never been vain 
of my alleged “looks” or “charm” for more than two 
minutes on end. I’ve invariably said to myself, “Remem- 
ber Jim Wyndham, and how he didn’t think you worth 
the bother of coming back to see.” 

Now you know why I can’t describe the effect upon my 
mind of learning that Jim Wyndham, the hero of my one- 
day romance, and Jimmy Beckett, the dead American 
aviator, were one. 


CHAPTER III 


HERE could be no chance of mistake. The pho- 
tograph was a very good likeness. 



JL For a while I sat quite still with the newspaper 
in my hands, living over the day in the shabby old garden. 
I felt like a mourner, bereaved of a loved one, for in a way — 
a schoolgirl way, perhaps — I had loved my prince of the 
arbour. And always since our day together, I’d compared 
other men with him, to their disadvantage. No one else 
ever captured my imagination as he captured it in those 
few hours. 

For a moment that little bit of Long Ago pushed itself 
between me and Now. I was grieving for my dead ro- 
mance, instead of for Brian’s broken life : but quickly I 
woke up. Things were as bad as ever again, and even 
worse, because of their contrast with the past I’d con- 
jured up. Grief for the death of Jimmy Beckett mingled 
with grief for Brian, and anxieties about money, in the 
dull, sickly way that unconnected troubles tangle them- 
selves together in nightmare dreams. 

I’m not telling you how I suffered, as an excuse for what 
I did, dear Padre. I’m only explaining how one thing 
led to another. 

It was in thinking of Jim Wyndham, and what might 
have happened between us if he’d come back to me as he 
promised, that the awful idea developed in my head. 

26 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


27 


The thought wasn’t born full-grown and armoured, like 
Minerva when she sprang from the brain of Jupiter. It 
began like this: 

“If I’d been engaged to him, I might have gone to his 
parents now. I should have comforted them by talking 
about their son, and they could have comforted me. Per- 
haps they would have adopted us as their children. We 
need never have been lonely and poor. Jim would have 
wished us to live with his father and mother, for all our 
sakes.” 

When the thought had gone as far as this, it suddenly 
leaped to an enormous height, as if a devil in me had 
been doing the mango trick. 

I heard myself thinking, “WTiy don’t you go to see Mr. 
and Mrs. Beckett, and tell them you were engaged to 
marry their only son.^ The paper said he left no fiancee or 
wife in America. You can easily make them believe your 
story. Nobody can prove that it isn’t true, and out of 
evil good will come for everyone.” 

Flames seemed to rush through my head with a loud 
noise, like the Tongues of Fire in the Upper Room. My 
whole body was in a blaze. Each nerve was a separate 
red-hot wire. 

I rose to my feet, but I made no sound. Instinct 
reminded me that I mustn’t wake Brian, but I could 
breathe better, think better standing, I felt. 

“They are millionaires, the Becketts — millionaires!” a 
voice was repeating in my brain. They wouldn’t let 
Brian or you want for anything. They’d be glad if you 
went to them. You could make them happy. You 
could tell them things they’d love to hear — and some 


28 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


would be true things. You were in the hospital close to 
St. Raphael for months, while Jimmy Beckett was in the 
training camp. Who’s to say you didn’t meet? If you’d 
been engaged to him since that day years ago, you cer- 
tainly would have met. No rules could have kept you 
apart. Go to them — go to them — or if you’re afraid, 
write a note, and ask if they’ll receive you. If they refuse, 
no harm will have been done.” 

Maybe, even then, if I’d stopped to tell myself what a 
wicked, cruel plan it was, I should have given it up. But 
it seemed a burning inspiration, and I knew that I must 
act upon it at once or never. 

I subsided into my chair again, and softly, very softly, 
hitched it closer to the table which pretended to be a 
writing-desk. Inside a blotting-pad were a few sheets of 
hotel stationery and envelopes. My stylographic pen 
glided noiselessly over the paper. Now and then I 
glanced over my shoulder at Brian, and he was still fast 
asleep, looking more like an angel than a man. You know 
my nickname for him was always “Saint” because of his 
beautiful pure face, and the far-away look in his eyes. 
Being a soldier has merely bronzed him a little. It hasn’t 
carved any hard lines. Being blind has made the far- 
away things he used to see come near, so that he walks in 
the midst of them. 

I wrote quickly and with a dreadful kind of ease, not 
hesitating or crossing out a single word. 

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Beckett,” I began (because I meant to 
address my letter to both). “I’ve just heard that you have 
come over from America, only in time to learn of your great loss. 
Is it an intrusion to tell you that your loss is mine too? I dearly 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


29 


loved your son. I met him nearly four years ago, when my 
brother and I were travelling in France and Belgium. Our 
meeting was the romance of my life. I hardly dare to think 
he told you about it. But a few months ago I took up nursing 
at the Hopital des Epidemies, near St. Raphael. As you know, 
he was there training. He sent us a cheque for our sufferers; and 
what was fated to happen did happen. We met again. We 
loved each other. We were engaged. He may have written 
to you, or he may have waited till he could tell you by word of 
mouth. 

“I am in Paris, as you will see by this address. My soldier 
brother has lost his sight. I brought him here in the hope 
of a cure by your great American specialist Dr. Cuyler, but 
he tells me an operation would be useless. They say that one 
sorrow blunts another. I do not find it so. My heart is almost 
breaking. May I call upon you.^ To see his father and mother 
would be a comfort to me. But if it would be otherwise for you, 
please say ‘no.’ I will try to understand. 

“Yours in deepest sympathy, 

“Mary O’Malley.” 

As I finished, Brian waked from his nap, so I was able to 
leave him and run downstairs to send off the letter by 
hand. 

When it had gone, I felt somewhat as I’ve felt when near 
a man to whom an anaesthetic is being given. The fumes 
of ether have an odd effect on me. They turn me into a 
“don’t care” sort of person without conscience and with- 
out fear. No wonder some nations give soldiers a dash 
of ether in their drink, when they have to go “over the 
top!” I could go, and feel no sense of danger, even 
though my reason knew that it existed. 

So it was while I waited for the messenger from our mean 


30 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


little hotel to come back from the magnificent Ritz. 
Would he suddenly dash my sinful hopes by saying, “Pas 
de rSponse, Mademoiselle^' ; or would he bring me a letter 
from Father and Mother Beckett? If he brought 
such a letter, would it invite me to call and be inspected, 
or would it suggest that I kindly go to the devil? 

I was tremendously keyed up; and yet — curiously 1 
didn’t care which of these things happened. It was rather 
as if I were in a theatre, watching an act of a play that 
might end in one of several ways, neither one of which 
would really matter. 

I read aloud to Brian. My voice sounded sweet and 
well modulated, I thought; but quite like that of a stranger. 
I was reading some moving details of a vast battle, which 
— ordinarily — would have stirred me to the heart. But 
they made no impression on my brain. I forgot the words 
as they left my lips. Dimly I wondered if there were a 
curse falling upon me already : if I were doomed to lose all 
sense of grief or joy, as the man in the old story lost his 
shadow when he sold it to Satan. 

A long time passed. I stopped reading. Brian seemed 
inclined for the first time since his misfortune to talk over 
ways and means, and how we were to arrange our future. 
I shirked the discussion. Things would adjust themselves, 
I said evasively. I had some vague plans. Perhajis they 
would soon materialize. Even by to-morrow 

When I had got as far as that, tap, tap, came the long 
expected knock at the door. I sprang up. Suddenly the 
ether-like carelessness was gone. My life — my very soul — 
was at stake. I could hardly utter the little word 
*'E7itrez !" my throat was so tight, so dry. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


31 


The very young youth who opened the door was not the 
one I had sent to the Ritz. But I had no time to wonder 
why not, when he announced: monsieur et une dame, 

en has, demandent d voir Mademoiselle,^* 

My head whirled. Could it be? — but, surely no ! They 
would not have come to see me. Yet whom did I know in 
Paris? Who had learned that we were at this hotel? 
Had the monsieur and the dame given their name? No, 
they had not. They had said that Mademoiselle would 
understand. They were in the salon. 

I heard myself reply that I would descend tout de suite. 
I heard myself tell Brian that I should not be long away. 
I saw my face in the glass, deathly pale in its frame of 
dark hair, the eyes immense, with the pupils dilating over 
the blue, as an inky pool might drown a border of violets 
and blot out their colour. Even my lips were white. I 
was glad I had on a black dress — glad in a bad, deceitful 
way; though for a moment after learning who Jimmy 
Beckett was, I had felt a true thrill of loyal satisfaction 
because I was in mourning for my lost romance. 

I went slowly down the four flights of stairs. I could 
not have gone fast without falling. I opened the door of 
the stuffy salon, and saw — the dearest couple the wide 
world could hold. 


CHAPTER IV 


T hey sat together, an old-fashioned pair, on an 
old-fashioned sofa, facing the door. The thing I’d 
thought impossible had happened. The father 
and mother of Jim Beckett had come to me. 

For some reason, they seemed as much surprised at 
sight of me as I at sight of them. We gazed at each other 
for an instant, all three without moving. Then the old 
man (he was old, not middle-aged, as most fathers are 
nowadays) got to his feet. He took a step toward me, 
holding out his hand. His eyes searched mine; and, 
dimmed by years and sorrow as they were, there was in 
them still a reminder of the unforgotten, eagle-gaze. 
From him the son had inherited his high nose and square 
forehead. Had he lived, some day Jim’s face might have 
been chopped by Time’s hatchet into just such a rugged 
brown mask of old-manliness. Some day, Jim’s thick and 
smooth brown hair might have turned into such a snow- 
covered thatch, like the roof of a cottage on a Christmas 
card. 

The old lady was thin and flat of line, like a bas-relief 
that had come alive and lost its background. She had in 
her forget-me-not blue eyes the look of a child who has 
never been allowed to grow up; and I knew at once that 
she was one of those women kept by their menfolk on a 
high shelf, like a fragile flower in a silver vase. She, too, 
•v 32 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 33 

rose as I entered, but sank down again on the sofa with 
a little gesture at the same time welcoming and helpless. 

“My daughter, no wonder he loved you!” said the old 
man. “Now we see you, we understand, don’t we, 
Jenny?” Holding my hand, he turned and led me to- 
ward his wife, looking at me first, then at her. “We 
had to come. We’re going to love you, for yourself — and 
for him.” 

Speaking, his face had a faintly perceptible quiver of 
strained nerves or old age, like a sigh of wind ruiffling 
the calm surface of water. I felt how he fought to hide 
his emotion, and the answering thrill of it shot up through 
my arm, as our hands touched. My heart beat wildly, 
and the queer thought came that, if we were in the dark, 
it would send out pulsing lights from my body like the 
internal lamp of a firefly. 

He called me his “ daughter ! ” As I heard that word of 
love, which I had stolen, I realized the full shame and 
abomination of the thing I had done. My impulse was 
to cry out the truth. But it was only an impulse, such 
an impulse as lures one to jump from a height. I caught 
myseK back from yielding, as I would have caught my- 
self back from the precipice, lest in another moment I 
should lie crushed in a dark gulf. I waved before my eyes 
the flag of Brian’s need, and my bad courage came back. 

I let Mr. Beckett lead me to the sofa. I let his hand on 
my shoulder gently press me to sit down by his wife, who 
had not spoken yet. Her blue eyes, fixed with piteous 
earnestness on mine, were like those of a timid animal, 
when it is making up its mind whether to trust and “take 
to” a human stranger who offers advances. I seemed to 


34 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


see her thinking — thinking not so much with her brain as 
with her heart, as you used to say Brian thought. I saw 
her ideas move as if they’d been the works of a watch tick- 
ing under glass. I knew that she wasn’t clever enough to 
read my mind, but I felt that she was more dangerous, 
perhaps, than a person of critical intelligence. Being one 
of those always-was, always-will-be women — ^wife-women, 
mother-women she might by instinct see the badness of 
my heart as I was reading the simple goodness of hers. 

Her longing to know the soul of me pierced to it like a 
fine crystal spear; and the pathos of this bereaved mother 
and father, who had so generously answered my call, 
brought tears to my eyes. I had not winced away from 
her blue searchlights, but tears gathered and suddenly 
poured over my cheeks. Perhaps it was the tragedy of 
my own situation more than hers which touched me, for 
I was pitying as much as hating myself. Still the tears 
were true tears; and I suppose nothing I could have said 
or done would have appealed to Jim Beckett’s mother 
as they appealed. 

“Oh! you loved him!” she quavered, as if that were the 
one question for which she had sought the answer. And 
the next thing I knew we were crying in each other’s arms, 
the little frail woman and the cruel girl who was deceiving 
her. But, Padre, the cruel girl was suffering almost as she 
deserved to suffer. She had loved Jim Wyndham, and 
never will she love another man. 

“There, there!” Mr. Beckett was soothing us, patting 
our shoulders and our heads. “That’s right, cry together, 
but don’t grudge Jim to the cause, either of you. I don’t ! 
I’m proud he went the way he did. It was a grand way — 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


35 


and a grand cause. We’ve got to remember how many 
other hearts in the world are aching as ours ache. We’re 
not alone. I guess that helps a little. And Jenny, this 
poor child has a double sorrow to bear. Think of what she 
wrote about her brother, who’s lost his sight.” 

The little old lady sat up, and with a clean, lavender- 
scented handkerchief wiped first my eyes and then her own. 

“I know — I know,” she said. “But the child will let 
us try to comfort her — unless she has a father and mother 
of her own?” 

“My father and mother died when I was a little girl,” 
I answered. “ I’ve only my brother in the world.” 

“You have us,” they both exclaimed in the same breath : 
and though they bore as much physical likeness to one 
another as a delicate mountain-ash tree bears to the rocky 
mountain on which it grows, suddenly the two faces were 
so lit with the same beautiful inward light, that there was a 
striking resemblance between them. It was the kind of 
resemblance to be seen only on the faces of a pair who 
have loved each other, and thought the same thoughts 
long year after long year. The light was so warm, so pure 
and bright, that I felt as if a fire had been lit for me in the 
cold dark room. I didn’t deserve to warm my hands in 
its glow; but I forgot my falseness for a moment, and let 
whatever was good in me flow out in gratitude. 

I couldn’t speak. I could only look, and kiss the old 
lady’s tiny hand — ^ungloved to hold mine, and hung with 
loose rings of rich, ancient fashion such as children love 
to be shown in mother’s jewel-box. In return, she kissed 
me on both cheeks, and the old man smoothed my hair, 
heavily. 


36 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“Why yes, that’s settled then, you belong to us,” he said. 
“It’s just as if Jimmy ’d left you to us in his will. In his 
last letter the boy told his mother and me that when we 
met we’d get a pleasant surprise. We — silly old folks! 
— never thought of a love story. We supposed Jim was 
booked for promotion, or a new job with some sort of 
honour attached to it. And yet we might have guessed, if 
we’d had our wits about us, for we did know that Jimmy’d 
fallen in love at first sight with a girl in France, before the 
war broke out.” 

“He told you that!” I almost gasped. Then he had 
fallen in love, and hadn’t gone away forgetting, as I’d 
thought! Or was it some other girl who had won him at 
first sight? This was what I said to myself: and some- 
thing that was not myself added, “Now, if you don’t 
lose your head, you will find out in a minute all you’ve been 
puzzling over for nearly four years.” 

“He told his mother,” Mr. Beckett said. “Afterwards 
she told me. Jim wouldn’t have minded. He knew well 
enough she always tells me everything, and he didn’t ask 
her to keep any secret.” 

“It was when I was sort of cross one night, because he 
didn’t pay enough attention to a nice girl I’d invited, 
hoping to please him,” Mrs. Beckett confessed. “He’d 
just come back from Europe, and I enquired if the French 
girls were so handsome, they’d spoiled him for our home 
beauties. I let him see that his father and I wanted him to 
marry young, and give us a daughter we could love. Then 
he answered — I remember as if ’twas yesterday ! — ‘Mother, 
you wouldn’t want her unless I could love her too, would 
you?’ ‘Why no,’ I answered. ‘But you would love her!’ 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


37 


He didn’t speak for a minute. He was holding my hand, 
counting my rings — ^these ones you see — ^like he always 
loved to do from a child. When he’d counted them all, he 
looked up and said, ‘It wasn’t a French girl spoiled me for 
the others. I’m not sure, but I think she was Irish. I 
lost her, like a fool, trying to win a silly bet.’ Those were 
his very words. I know, because they struck me so 
I teased him to explain. After a while he did.” 

“ Oh, do tell me what he said ! ” I begged. 

At that minute Jim was alive for us all three. We were 
living with him in the past. I think none of us saw the 
little stuflPy room where we sat. Only our bodies were 
there, like the empty, amber shells of locusts when the 
locusts have freed themselves and vanished. I was in a 
rose arbour, on a day of late June, in a garden by a canal 
that led to Belgium. The Becketts were in their house 
across the sea. 

“Why,” his mother hesitated, “it was quite a story. 
But when he found you again he must have told you it 
all.” 

“Ah, but do tell me what he told you ! ” 

“Well, it began with a landlady in a hotel wanting him 
to see a picture. The artist was away, but his sister was 
there. That was you, my dear.” 

“Yes, it was I. My poor Brian painted such beautiful 
things before ” 

“We know they were beautiful, because we’ve seen the 
picture,” Father Beckett broke in. “But go on. Mother. 
We’ll tell about the picture by and by. She’ll like to hear. 
But the rest first ! ” 

The little old lady obeyed, and went on. “Jimmv said 


38 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


he was taken to a room, and there stood the most won- 
derful girl he’d ever seen in his life — ^his ‘dream come alive.’ 
That’s how he described her. And there was more. 
Father, I never told you this part. But maybe Miss — 
Miss ” 

“Will you call me ‘Mary’? ” I asked. 

“Maybe ‘Mary’ would like to hear. Of course I never 
forgot one word. No mother could forget! And now I 
see he described you just right. When you hear, you’ll 
know it was love made his talk about you poetry-like. 
Jimmy never talked that way to me of any one, before or 
since.” 

Padre, I am going to write down the things he said of me, 
because it is exquisite to know that he thought them. He 
said, I had eyes “like sapphires fallen among dark grasses.” 
And my hair was so heavy and thick that, if I pulled out 
the pins, it would fall around me “in a black avalanche.” 

Ah, the joy and the pain of hearing these words like an 
echo of music I had nearly missed! There’s no language 
for what I felt. But you will understand. 

He had told his mother about our day together. He 
said, he kept falling deeper in love every minute, and it 
was all he could do not to exclaim, “Girl, I simply must 
marry you!” He dared not say that lest I should refuse, 
and there would be an end of everything. So he tried as 
hard as he could to make me like him, and remember him 
till he should come back, in two weeks. He thought that 
was the best way; and he would have let his bet slide if he 
hadn’t imagined that a little mystery might make him 
more interesting in my eyes. Believing that we had 
met again, Mrs. Beckett supposed that he had explain^'d 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


39 


this to me. But of course it was all new, and when she 
came to the reason why Jim Wyndham had never come 
back, I thought for a moment I should faint. He was 
taken ill in Paris, three days after we parted, with typhoid 
fever; and though it was never a desperate case — owing to 
his strong constitution — he was delirious for weeks. 
Two months passed before he was well enough to look for 
me, and by that time all trace of us was lost. Brian and I 
had gone to England long before. Jim’s friend — ^the one 
with whom he had the bet — wired to the Becketts that he 
was ill, but not dangerously, and they weren’t to come over 
to France. It was only when he reached home that they 
knew how serious the trouble had been. 

While I was listening, learning that Jim had really loved 
me, and searched for me, it seemed that I had a right to 
him after all: that I was an honest girl, hearing news of 
her own man, from his own people. It was only when Mr. 
Beckett began to draw me out, with a quite pathetic 
shyness, on the subject of our worldly resources that I 
was brought up short again, against the dark wall of 
my deceit. It should have been exquisite, it was heart- 
breaking, to see how he feared to hurt my feelings with 
some offer of help from his abundance. “Hurt my 
feelings!” And it was with the sole intention of 
“working” them for money that I’d written to the Bec- 
ketts. 

That looks horrible in black and white, doesn’t it, 
Padre But I won’t try to hide my motives behind a 
dainty screen, from your eyes or mine. I had wanted and 
meant to get as much as I could for Brian and myself out 
of Jim Beckett’s father and mother. And now, when I 


40 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


was on the way to obtain my object, more easily than I 
had expected — now, when I saw the kind of people they 
were — ^now, when I knew that to Jim Wyndham I had 
been an ideal, “his dream come true.” I saw my own face 
as in a mirror. It was like the sly, mean face of a serpent 
disguised as a woman. 

I remember once saying to you. Padre, when you had 
read aloud “The Idylls of the King” to Brian and me as 
children, that Vivien was the worst cad I ever heard of 
since the beginning of the world ! I ha ven’t changed my 
mind about her since, except that I give her second place. 
I am in the first. 

I suppose, when I first pictured the Becketts (if I stopped 
to picture them at all) I imagined they would be an ordin- 
ary American millionaire and millionairess, bow-fronted;, 
self-important creatures; the old man with a diamond stud 
like a headlight, the old lady afraid to take cold if she 
left off an extra row of pearls. In our desperate state, 
anything seemed fair in love or war with such hard, worth- 
their-weight-in-gold people. But I ought to have known 
that a man like Jim Beckett couldn’t have such parents! 
I ought to have known they wouldn’t be in the common 
class of millionaires of any country; and that whatever 
their type they would be unique. 

Well, I hadn't known. Their kindness, their dear human- 
ness, their simplicity, overwhelmed me as the gifts of 
shields and bracelets from the Roman warriors over- 
whelmed treacherous Tarpeia. And when they began 
delicately begging me to be their adopted daughter — ^the 
very thing I’d prayed for to the devil! — I felt a hundred 
times wickeder than if Jim hadn’t set me on a high pedes- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 41 

tal, where they wished to keep me with their money, 
their love, as offerings. 

Whether I should have broken down and confessed 
everything, or brazened it out in spite of all if I’d been 
left alone to decide, I shall never know. For just then 
the door opened, and Brian came into the room. 


CHAPTER V 


W HY Brian’s coming should make all the differ- 
ence may puzzle you, Padre, but I’ll explain. 
Ours is an amateurish hotel, especially since 
the war. Any one who happens to have the time or in- 
clination runs it: or if no one has time it runs itself. Con- 
sequently mistakes are made. But what can you expect 
for eight francs a day, with pension? 

I said that a very young youth brought up the news of 
the Becketts’ arrival. He’d merely announced that “ww 
monsieur et une dame^' had called. Apparently they had 
given no names, no cards. But in truth there were cards, 
which had been mislaid, or in other words left upon the 
desk in the hureauy with the numbers of both our rooms 
scrawled on them in pencil. Nobody was there at the time, 
but when the concierge came back (he is a sort of unoflficial 
understudy for the mobilized manager) he saw the cards 
and sent them upstairs. They were taken to Brian and 
the names read aloud to him. He supposed, from vague 
information supplied by the gargon (it was a gargon this 
time) that I wished him to come and join me in the salon 
with my guests. He hated the thought of meeting 
strangers (the name “Beckett” meant nothing to him), 
but if he were wanted by his sister, he never yet left her 
in the lurch. 

He and I both knew the house with our eyes shut, before 

42 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


43 


the war; and now that Brian is blind, he practises in the 
most reckless way going about by himself. He refused to ^ 
be led to the salon: he came unaided and unerring: and 
I thought when he appeared at the door, I’d never seen 
him look so beautiful. He is beautiful you know! Now 
that his physical eyesight is gone, and he’s developing that 
mysterious “inner sight” of which he talks, there’s no 
other adjective which truly expresses him. He stood 
there for a minute with his hand on the door-knob, with 
all the light in the room (there wasn’t much) shining 
straight into his face. It couldn’t help doing that, as the 
one window is nearly opposite the door; but really it does 
seem sometimes that light seeks Brian’s face, as the “spot 
light ” in theatres follows the hero or heroine of a play. 

There was an asking smile on his hps, and — by accident, 
of course — ^his dear blind eyes looked straight at Mrs. 
Beckett. We are enough alike, we twins, for any one to 
know at a glance that we’re brother and sister, so the 
Becketts would have known, of course, even if I hadn’t 
cried out in surprise, “ Brian ! ” 

They took it for granted that Brian would have heard 
all about their son Jim; so, touched by the pathos of his 
blindness — the lonely pathos (for a blind man is as lonely 
as a daylight moon !) Mrs. Beckett almost ran to him and 
took his hand. 

“We’re the Becketts, with your sister,” she said* 
“Jimmy’s father and mother. I expect you didn’t meet 
him when they were getting engaged to each other at 
St. Raphael. But he loved your picture that he bought 
just before the war. He used to say, if only you’d signed 
it, his whole life might have been different. That was 


44 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


when he’d lost Mary, you see — and he’d got hold of her 
name quite wrong. He thought it was Ommalee, and we 
never knew a word about the engagement, or her real 
name or anything, till the letter came to us at our hotel 
to-day. Then we hurried around here, as quick as we 
could ; and she promised to be our adopted daughter. That 
means you will have to be our adopted son ! ” 

I think Mrs. Beckett is too shy to like talking much at 
ordinary times. She would rather let her big husband 
talk, and listen admiringly to him. But this wasnH 
an ordinary time. To see Brian stand at the door, wistful 
and alone, gave her a pain in her heart, so she rushed to 
him, and poured out all these kind words, which left him 
dazed. 

“You are very good to me,” he answered, too thought- 
ful of others’ feelings, as always, to blurt out — as most 
people would — “I don’t understand. Who are you, 
please? ” Instead, his sightless but beautiful eyes seemed 
to search the room, and he said, “Molly, you’re here, 
aren’t you?” 

Now perhaps you begin to understand why his coming, 
and Mrs. Beckett’s greeting of him, stopped me from 
telling the truth — if I would have told it. I’m not sure 
if I would, in any case. Padre; but as it was I could not. 
The question seemed settled. To have told the Becketts 
that I was an adventuress — a repentant adventuress — 
and let them go out of my life without Brian ever knowing 
they’d come into it was one thing. To explain, to accuse 
myself before Brian, to make him despise the only person 
he had to depend on, and so to spoil the world for him, was 
another thing. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


45 


I accepted the fate I’d summoned like the genie of a 
lamp. “Yes, Brian, I’m here,” I answered. And I went 
to him, and took possession of the hand Mrs. Beckett had 
left free. “ I never told you about my romance. It was so 
short. And — ^and one doesn’t put the most sacred things 
in letters. I loved a man, and he loved me. We met in 
France before the war, and lost each other. 

“Afterward he came back to fight. A few days ago he 
fell — ^just at the time when his parents had hurried over 
from America to see him. I — I couldn’t resist writing 
them a letter, though they were strangers to me. I ” 

“That’s not a word I like to hear on your lips — 
‘strangers’,” Mr. Beckett broke in, “even though you’re 
speaking of the past. We’re all one family now. You 
don’t mind my saying that, Brian, or taking it for granted 
you’ll consent — or calling you Brian, do you?” 

“Mind!” echoed Brian, with his sweet, young smile. 
“How could I mind? It’s like something in a story. It’s a 
sad story — ^because the hero’s gone out of it — ^no, he hasnt 
gone, really! It only seems so, before you stop to think. 
I’ve learned enough about death to learn that. And I 
can tell by both your voices you’ll be friends worth hav- 
ing.” 

“Oh, you are a dear boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Beckett. 
“God is good to give you and your sister to us in our dark 
hour. I feel as if Jimmy were here with us. I do believe 
he is ! I know he’d like me to tell you what he did with 
your picture, and what we’ve done with it since, his father 
and I.” 

Brian must have felt that it would be good for us all to 
talk of the pictures, just then, not of this “Jimmy” who 


46 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


was still a mystery to him. He caught up the subject and 
said that he didn’t understand. What picture was it of 
which they spoke? He generally signed his initials, but 
they’d mentioned that this was unsigned 

“Don’t you remember,” I explained, “the sketch I sold 
for you to Mr. Wyndham when we were tramping through 
France? You told me when you came back from Paris 
that it wasn’t quite finished. You’d meant to put on a 
few more touches — and your signature. Well, ‘Wynd- 
ham’ was only the middle name. I never told you much 
about that day. I was half ashamed, because it was the 
day when my romance began and — ^broke. I hoped it 
might begin again sometime, but — ^but — ^you shall hear 
the whole story soon. Only — ^not now.” 

Even as I promised him, I promised myself to tell him 
nothing. I might have to lie in deeds to Brian. I wouldn’t 
lie in words. Mrs. Beckett might give him her version of 
her son’s romance — some day. Just at the moment she 
was relating, almost happily, the story of the picture : and 
it was for me, too. 

Jim had had a beautiful frame made for Brian’s cathe- 
dral sketch, and it had been hung in the best place — over 
his desk — in the special sanctum where the things he loved 
most were put. In starting for Europe his father and 
mother had planned to stop only a short time in a Paris 
hotel. They had meant to take a house, where Jim could 
join them whenever he got a few days’ leave: and as a 
surprise for him they had brought over his favourite 
treasures from the “den.” Among these was the unsigned 
picture painted by the brother of The Girl. They had 
even chosen the house, a small but charming old chateau to 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


47 


which Jim had taken a fancy. It was rather close to the 
war zone in these days, but that had not struck them as an 
obstacle. They were not afraid. They had wired, before 
sailing, to a Paris agent, telling him to engage the chateau 
if it was still to let furnished. On arriving the answer 
awaited them: the place was theirs. 

“We thought it would be such a joy to Jim,” Mrs. 
Beckett said. “He fell in love with that chdteau before 
he came down with typhoid. I’ll show you a snapshot he 
took of it. He used to say he’d give anything to live there. 
And crossing on the ship we talked every day of how we’d 
make a ‘den’ for him, full of his own things, and never 
breathe a word till he opened the door of the room. We’re 
in honour bound to take the house now, whether or not we 
use it — without Jim. I don’t know what we shall do, I’m 
sure! All I know is, I feel as if it would kill me to turn 
round and go home with our broken hearts.” 

“We’ve got new obligations right here, Jenny. You 
mustn’t forget that,” said Mr. Beckett. “Remember 
we’ve just adopted a daughter — and a son, too. We must 
consult them about our movements.” 

“Oh, I hadn’t forgotten!” the old lady cried. “They 
— they’ll help us to decide, of course. But just now I can’t 
make myself feel as if one thing was any better than 
another. If only we could think of something Jim would 
have liked us to do! Something — ^patriotic — ^for France.” 

“Mary has seen Jim since we saw him, dear. Perhaps 
from talk they had she’ll have a suggestion to make.” 

“ Oh no ! ” I cried. “ I’ve no suggestion.” 

“And you, Brian.f^” the old man persisted. 

Quickly I answered for my brother. “They never met ! 


48 EVERYMAN’S LAND 

Brian couldn’t know what — ^Jim would have lifted you to 
do.” 

“It’s true, I can’t know,” said Brian. “But a thought 
has come into my head. Shall I tell it to you ? ” 

“Yes!” the Becketts answered in a breath. They 
gazed at him as if they fancied him inspired by their son’s 
spirit. No wonder, perhaps ! Brian has an inspired look. 

“Are you very rich?” he asked bluntly, as a child puts 
questions which grown-ups veil. 

“We’re rich in money,” answered the old man. “But 
I guess I never quite realized till now, when we lost Jimmy, 
how poor you can be, when you’re only rich in what the 
world can give.” 

“I suppose you’ll want to put up the finest monument 
for your son that money can buy,” Brian went on, as 
though he had wandered from his subject. But I — know- 
ing him, and his slow, dreamy way of getting to his goal — 
knew that he was not astray. He was following some star 
which we hadn’t yet seen. 

“We’ve had no time to think of a monument,” said Mr. 
Beckett, with a choke in his voice. “ Of course we would 
wish it, if it could be done. But Jim lies on German soil. 
We can’t mark the place ” 

“It doesn’t much matter — to him — where his body 
lies,” Brian went on. “He is not in German soil, or in No 
Man’s Land. Wouldn’t he like to have a monument in 
Everyman^ s Land 

“What do you mean?” breathed the little old lady. 
She realized now that blind Brian wasn’t speaking idly. 

“Well, you see, France and Belgium together will be 
Everyman’s Land after the war, won’t they?” Brian said. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


49 


“Every man who wants the world’s true peace has fought 
in France and Belgium, if he could fight. Every man who 
has fought, and every man who wished to fight but 
couldn’t, will want to see those lands that have been 
martyred and burned, when they have risen like the 
Phoenix out of their own ashes. That’s why I call France 
and Belgium Everyman’s Land. You say your Jim 
spent some of his happiest days there, and now he’s given 
his life for the land he loved. Wouldn’t you feel as if he 
went with you, if you made a pilgrimage from town to town 
he knew in their days of beauty — if you travelled and 
studied some scheme for helping to make each one beauti- 
ful again after the war? If you did this in his name and 
his honour, could he have a better memorial?” 

“I guess God has let Jim speak through your lips, and 
tell us his wish,” said Mr. Beckett. “What do you think, 
Jenny?” 

“I think what you think,” she echoed. “It’s right the 
word should come to us from the brother of Jim’s love.” 


CHAPTER VI 


T hat is the story, Padre, as far as it has gone. 

No sign from you, no look in your eyes, could 
show me myself in a meaner light than shines 
from the mirror of my conscience. If Jim hadn’t loved 
me, it would be less shameful to trade on the trust of 
these kind people. I see that clearly! And I see how 
hateful it is to make Brian an innocent partner in the 
fraud. 

I’m taking advantage of one man who is dead, and 
another who is blind. And it is as though I were “betting 
on a certainty,” because there’s nobody alive who can come 
forward to tell the Becketts or Brian what I am. I’m safe, 
brutally safe ! 

You’ll see from what I have written how Brian turned 
the scales. The plan he proposed developed in the Beck- 
etts’ minds with a quickness that could happen only with 
Americans — and millionaires. Father Beckett sees and 
does things on the grand scale. Perhaps that’s the secret 
of his success. He was a miner once, he has told Brian and 
me. Mrs. Beckett was a district school teacher in the Far 
West, where his fortune began. They married while he was 
still a poor man. But that’s by the way ! I want to tell 
you now of his present, not of his past: and the working 
out of our future from Brian’s suggestion. Ten minutes 
after the planting of the seed a tree had grown up, and was 
50 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


51 


putting forth leaves and blossoms. Soon there will be 
fruit. And it will come into existence ripe / I suppose 
Americans are like that. They manage their affairs with 
mental intensive culture. 

The Becketts are prepared to love me for Jim’s sake; 
but Brian they worship as a supernatural being. Mr. 
Beckett says he’s saved them from themselves, and given 
them an incentive to live. It was only yesterday that they 
answered my S. O. S. call. Now, the immediate future is 
settled, for the four of us; settled for us together. 

Father Beckett is asking leave to travel en automobile 
through the liberated lands. In each town and village 
Jim’s parents will decide on some work of charity or re- 
construction in his memory, above all in places he knew 
and loved. They can identify these by the letters he 
wrote home from France before the war. His mother has 
kept every one. Through a presentiment of his death, or 
because she couldn’t part from them, she has brought 
along a budget of Jim’s letters from America. She carries 
them about in a little morocco hand-bag, as other women 
carry their jewels. 

The thought of Brian’s plan is for the two old people like 
an infusion of blood in emptied veins. They say that they 
would never have thought of it themselves, and if they had, 
they would not have ventured to attempt it alone, ignorant 
of French as they are. But this is their generous way of 
making us feel indispensable ! They tell us we are needed 
to “see them through”; that without our help and ad- 
vice they would be lost. Every word of kindness is a 
new stab for me. Shall I grow callous as time goes on, and 
accept everything as though I really were what they call 


52 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


me — their ‘‘daughter”? Or — I begin to think of another 
alternative. I’ll turn to it if I grow desperate. 

The bright spot in my darkness is the joyful change in 
the Becketts. They feel that they’ve regained their son; 
that Jim will be with them on their journey, and that 
they’ve a rendezvous with him at chdteau,” when 
they reach the journey’s end. They owe this happiness 
not to me, but to Brian. As for him, he has the air of 
calm content that used to enfold him when he packed his 
easel and knapsack for a tramp. Blindness isn’t blindness 
for Brian. It’s only another kind of sight. 

“I shan’t see the wreck and misery you others will have 
to see,” he says. “Horrors don’t exist any more for my 
eyes. I shall see the country in all its beauty as it was 
before the war. And who knows but I shall find my dog? ” 
(Brian lost the most wonderful dog in the world when he 
was wounded.) He is always hoping to find it again! 

He doesn’t feel that he accepts charity from the Beck- 
etts. He believes, with a kind of modest pride, that we’re 
really indispensable. Afterward — ^when the tour is over — 
he thinks that “some other scheme will open.” I think so 
too. The Becketts will propose it, to keep us with them. 
They will urge and argue, little dreaming how I drew them, 
with a grappling-hook resolve to become a barnacle on 
their ship ! 

To-morrow we move to the Ritz. The Becketts insist. 
They want us near them for “consultations”! This 
morning the formal request was made to the French 
authorities, and sent to headquarters. On the fourth 
day the answer will come, and there’s little doubt it will 
be “yes.” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


53 


Can I bear to go on deceiving Jim Beckett’s father and 
mother, or — shall I take the other alternative? I must 
decide to-night. 

Since I wrote that last sentence I have been out, alone 
— to decide. Padre, it was in my mind never to come 
back. 

I walked a long, long way, to the Champs-Elysees. I was 
very tired, and I sat down — almost dropped down — on a 
seat under the high canopy of chestnut trees. I could not 
think, but I had a sense of expectation as if I were waiting 
for somebody who would tell me what to do. Paris in the 
autumn twilight was a dream of beauty. Suddenly the 
dream seemed to open, and draw me in. Some one far 
^way, whom I had known and loved, was dreaming me I 
What I should decide about the future, depended no longer 
on myself, but upon the dreamer. I didn’t loiow who he 
was; but I knew I should learn by and by. It was he who 
would come walking along the road of his own dream, and 
take the vacant place by me on the seat. 

Being in the dream, I didn’t belong to the wonderful, 
war-time Paris which was rushing and roaring around me. 
Military motors, and huge camions and ambulances were 
tearing up and down, over the gray-satin surface of as- 
phalt which used to be sacred to private autos and gay lit- 
tle taxis bound for theatres and operas and balls. For 
every girl, or woman, or child, who passed, there were at 
least ten soldiers : French soldiers in bleu horizon, Serbians 
in gray, Britishers and a sprinkling of Americans in khaki. 
There was an undertone of music — a tune in the making 
in the tramp, tramp, of the soldiers’ feet, the rumble and 


54 EVERYMAN’S LAND 

whirr of the cars-of-war, the voices of women, the laughing 
cries of children. 

I thought how simple it would be, to spring up and throw 
myself under one of the huge, rushing camions: how easily 
the thing might be taken for an accident if I stage-man- 
aged it well. The Becketts would be angels to Brian 
when I was gone! But the dreamer of the dream would 
not let me stir hand or foot. He put a spell of stillness upon 
me; he shut me up in a transparent crystal box, while out- 
side all the world moved about its own affairs. 

The mauve light of Paris nights filtered up from the 
gleaming asphalt, as if through a roof of clouded glass over 
a subterranean ballroom lit with blue and purple lanterns. 
Street lamps, darkly shaded for air-raids, trailed their white 
lights downward, long and straight, like first-communion 
veils. Distant trees and shrubs and statues began to 
retreat into the dusk, as if withdrawing from the sight of 
fevered human-folk to rest. Violet shadows rose in a tide, 
and poured through the gold-green tunnel of chestnut trees, 
as sea- water pours into a cave. And the shadow-sea had a 
voice like the whisper of waves. It said, “The dream is 
Jim Wyndham’s dream.” I felt him near me — still in the 
dream. The one I had waited for had come. 

I was free to move. The transparent box was broken. 

What the meaning of my impression was I don’t know. 
But it must have a meaning, it was so strong and real. It 
has made me change my mind about — ^the other alterna- 
tive. I want to live, and find my way back into that 
dream. 


CHAPTER VII 


P ADRE, you were right. My greatest comfort, as 
of old, is in turning to you. 

I think you had a glimpse of the future when 
you left me that last message: “Write to me, in the old 
way, just as if I were alive and had gone on a long journey.” 

When I lock my door, and get out this journal, it seems 
as if a second door — a door in the wall — opened, to show 
you smiling the good smile which made your face different 
from any other. I don’t deserve the smile. Did I ever 
deserve it? Yet you gave it even when I was at my worst. 
Now it seems to say, “In spite of all, I won’t turn my back 
on you. I haven’t given you up.” 

When I first began to write in this book (the purple- 
covered journal which was your last present to me), I 
meant just to relieve my heart by putting on paper, as if 
for you, the story of my wickedness. Now the story is 
told, I can’t stop. I can’t shut the door in the wall! I 
shall go on, and on. I shall tell you all that happens, all 
I feel, and see, and think. That must have been what you 
meant me to do. 

When Brian and I were away from home a million years 
ago, before the war, we wrote you every day, if only a few 
paragraphs, and posted our letters at the end of a week. 
You said those letters were your “magic carpet,” on which 
you travelled with us. Poor Padre, you’d no time nor 
55 


0 


56 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


money for other travelling! You never saw France, till 
the war called you. And after a few bleak months, that 
other great call came. I shall write to you about France, 
and about myself, as I should have written if you were back 
at home. 

First — about myself ! A few pages ago I said that there 
was no one alive who could prove me a liar, to the Becketts 
or Brian: that I was “safe — brutally safe.” Well, I was 
mistaken. I am not safe. But I will go back to our start. 

Everyone warned the Becketts that they would get no 
automobile, no essence, and no chauffeur. Yet they got 
all three, as magically as Cinderella got her coach and four. 
The French authorities played fairy godmother, and waved 
a wand . Why not, when in return so much was to be done 
for France.^ 

The wand gave a permit for the whole front (counting in 
the American front!) from Lorraine to Flanders. It pro- 
duced a big gray car, and a French soldier to drive it. The 
soldier has only one leg: but he can do more with that one 
than most men with two. Thus we set forth on the jour- 
ney Brian planned, the Becketts so grateful — ^poor darlings 
— for our company, that it was hard to realize that I didn’t 
belong. 

It was a queer thought that we should be taking the road 
to Germany — we, of all people : yet every road that leads 
east from Paris leads to Germany. And it was a wonder- 
ful thought, that we should be going to the Marne. 

Surely generations must pass before that name can be 
heard, even by children, without a thrill! We said it over 
and over in the car: “The Marne — the Marne! We 
shall see the Marne, this autumn of 1917.” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


57 


Meanwhile the road was a dream-road. It had the un- 
natural quietness of dreams. In days of peace it would 
have been choked with country carts bringing food to fill 
the wide-open mouth of Paris. Now, the way to the 
capital was silent and empty, save for gray military motors 
and lumbering army camions. The cheap bowling alleys 
and jerry-built restaurants of the suburbs seemed under a 
spell of sleep. There were no men anywhere, except the 
very old, and boys of the “class” of next year. Women 
swept out the gloomy shops; women drove omnibuses: 
women hawked the morning papers. Outside Paris we 
were stopped by soldiers, appearing from sentry-boxes : our 
papers were scanned; almost reluctantly we were allowed 
to pass on, to the Secret Region of Crucifix Corner, which 
spying eyes must not see — the region of aeroplane hangars, 
endless hangars, lost among trees, and melting dimly into 
a dim horizon, their low, rounded roofs “camouflaged” 
in a confusion of splodged colours. 

There was so much to see — so much which was abnormal, 
and belonged to war — that we might have passed without 
glancing at a line of blue water, parallel with our road at a 
little distance, had not Brian said, “Have we come in sight 
of the Ourcq? We ought to be near it now. Don’t you 
know, the men of the Marne say the men of the Ourcq did 
more than they to save Paris?” 

The Becketts had hardly heard of the Ourcq. As for 
me, I’d forgotten that part in the drama of September, 
1914. I knew that there was an Ourcq — a canal, or a 
river, or both, with a bit of Paris sticking to its banks: 
knew it vaguely, as one knows and forgets that one’s 
friends’ faces have profiles. But Brian’s words brought 


58 EVERYMAN’S LAND 

A 

back the whole story to my mind in a flash. I remem- 
bered how Von Kluck was trapped like a rat, in the couloir 
of the Ourcq, by the genius of Gallieni, and the glorious 
cooperation of General Manoury and the dear British 
“contemptibles” under General French. 

It was a desperate adventure that — to try and take the 
Germans in the flank; and Gallieni’s advisers told him 
there were not soldiers enough in his command to do it. 
“Then well do it with sailors!” he said. “But,” urged 
an admiral, “my sailors are not trained to march.” 

“They will march without being trained,” said the 
defender of the capital. “I’ve been in China and Mada- 
gascar, I know what sailors can do on land.” 

“Even so, there will not be enough men,” answered the 
pessimists. 

“We’ll fill the gaps with the police,” said the general, 
inspired perhaps by Sainte-Genevieve. 

So the deed was dared; and in a panic at sight of the 
mysteriously arriving troops. Von Kluck retreated from 
the Ourcq to the Aisne. It was when he heard how the 
trick had been played and won by sheer bravado, that he 
cried out in rage, “How could I count on such a coup? 
Not another military governor in a hundred would have 
risked throwing his whole force sixty kilometres from its 
base. How should I guess what a dare-devil fool Gallieni 
would turn out? But if Trochu, in ’70, had been the same 
kind of a fool,,^we should never have got Paris!” 

Half the ghoits in history seemed to haunt this Route de 
Strasbourg, and to meet us as we passed. You know how 
you see the characters in a moving-picture play, and be- 
hind them the “fade ins” that show their life histoiy. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


59 


visions that change on the screen like patterns in a kaleido- 
scope? So on this meadow-bordered road, peaceful in the 
autumn sunlight, we saw with our minds’ eyes the soldiers 
of 1914: behind them the soldiers of 1870: farther in the 
background Napoleon the Great with his men: and fading 
into the distance, processions of kings who had marched 
along the Marne, since the day Sainte-Genevieve ordered 
the gates of Paris to be shut in the face of Attila. 

Such a gay, gold-sequined blue-green ribbon of a river it 
looked! Almost impudent in gaiety, as if it wished to 
forget and be happy. But souls and rivers never really 
forget. When they know what the Marne knows, they are 
gay only on the surface! 

It was at Meaux where we had our first close meeting 
with the Marne: Meaux, the city nearest Paris “on the 
Marne front,” where the Germans came: and even after 
three years you can still see on the left bank of the river 
traces of trench — shallow, pathetic holes dug in wild 
haste. We might have missed them, we creatures with 
mere eyes, if Brian hadn’t asked, “Can’t you see the 
trenches?” Then we saw them, of course, half lost under 
rank grass, like dents in a green velvet cushion made by 
a sleeper who has long ago waked and walked away. 

From a distance the glistening gray roofs of Meaux were 
like a vast crowd of dark- winged doves; but as we ran 
into the town it opened out into dignified importance, able 
to live up to its thousand years of history. There was no 
work for the Becketts there, we thought, for the Germans 
had time to do little material harm to Meaux in 1914: and 
at first sight there seemed to be no need of alms. But 
Jim had loved Meaux. His mother took from her blue 


60 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


morocco bag his letter describing the place, mentioninj^ 
how he had met the bishop through a French friend. 

“Do you think,” she asked me timidly, “we might call 
on the bishop Who knows but he remembers our 
Jimmy 

“He’s a famous bishop,” said Brian. “I’ve heard poilus 
from Meaux tell stories of how the Germans were forced to 
respect him, he was so brave and fine. He took the chil- 
dren of the town under his protection, and no harm came to 
one of them. There were postcard photographs going 
round early in the war, of the bishop sin-rounded by boys 
and girls — ^like a benevolent Pied Piper. It’s kindness he’s 
famous for, as well as courage, so I’m sure we may call.” 

Near the beautiful old cathedral we passed a priest, and 
asked him where to find the bishop’s house. “You need 
not go so far; here he comes,” was the answer. We looked 
over our shoulders, almost guiltily, and there indeed he 
was. He had been in the cathedral with two French offi- 
cers, and in another instant the trio would have turned a 
comer. Our look and the priest’s gesture told the bishop 
that we were speaking of him. He paused, and Mr. Beck- 
ett jumped out of the stopped car, agile as a boy in his ex- 
citement. 

“Oh, I forgot, I can’t talk French! Mary, you must 
see me through!” he pleaded. 

I hurried to the rescue, and together we walked up to the 
bishop. Off came Mr. Beckett’s hat; and both officers 
saluted us. One was a general, the other a colonel. 

If I’d had time to rehearse, I might have done myself 
some credit. As it was, I stammered out some sort of 
eT:planation and introduced Jim’s father. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


61 


“I remember young Monsieur Beckett,” the bishop 
said. “He was not one to be forgotten! Besides, he was 
generous to Meaux. He left a noble present for our poor. 
And now, you say, he has given his life for France.^ What 
is there I can do to prove our gratitude.^ You have come 
to Meaux because of his letters.^ Wait a few minutes, till 
these brave messieurs have gone, and I myself will show 
you the cathedral. Oh, you need not fear! It will be a 
pleasure.” 

He was as good as his word, and better. Not only did 
he show the splendid Gothic cathedral, pride of the “fair 
Ile-de-France,” but the bishop’s house as well. Bossuet 
had lived there, the most famous bishop Meaux had in the 
past. It was dramatic to enter his study, guided by the 
most famous bishop of the present; to see in such company 
the room where Bossuet penned his denunciation of the 
Protestants, and then the long avenue of yews where he 
used to walk in search of inspiration. We saw his tomb, 
too — in the cathedral (yes, I believe Brian saw it more 
clearly than we!), one of those grand tombs they gave 
prelates in the days of Louis XIV: and when the Beck- 
etts had followed Jim’s example in generosity, we bade 
adieu to the — oh, ever so much kindlier heir of the great 
controversialist. I’m afraid, to tell the truth, the little 
old lady cared more to know that her Jim’s favourite 
cheese — Brie — was made in Meaux, than anything else in 
the town’s history. Nevertheless, she listened with a 
charmed air to Brian’s story of Meaux’s great romance — 
as she listens to all Brian’s stories. It was you. Padre, 
who told it to Brian, and to me, one winter night when 
we’d been reading about Gaston, de Foix, “Gaston le 


62 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Bel.” Our talk of his exploits brought us to Meaux, at the 
time of the Jacquerie, in the twelfth century. The com- 
mon people had revolted against the nobles who oppressed 
them, and all the Ile-de-France — adorable name ! — seethed 
with civil war. In Meaux was the Duchess of Orleans, 
with three hundred great ladies, most of them beautiful 
and young. The peasants besieged the Duchess there, 
and she and her lovely companions were put to sore straits, 
when suddenly arrived brave Gaston to save them. I 
don’t quite know why he took the trouble to come so far, 
from his hill-castle near the Spanish frontier, but most 
likely he loved one of the shut-up ladies. Or perhaps it 
was simply for love of all womanhood, since Gaston was so 
chivalrous that Froissart said, ‘T never saw one like him 
of personage, nor of so fair form, nor so well made.” 

From Meaux our road (we were going to make Nancy 
our centre and stopping place) followed the windings of 
the green ribbon Marne to Chdteau-Thierry, on the river’s 
right bank. There’s a rather thrilling ruin, that gave the 
town its name, and dominates it still — the ruin of a castle 
which Charles Martel built for a young King Thierry. The 
legend says that this boy differed from the wicked kings 
Thierry, sons and grandsons of the Frankish Clovis; that he 
wanted to be good, but “Fate” would not let him. Per- 
haps it’s a judgment on those terrible Thierry kings, who 
left to their enemies only the earth round their habitations 
— “because it couldn’t be carried away” — that the 
Germans have left ruins in Chateau-Thierry more cruel 
than those of the crumbling castle. In seven September 
days they added more monuments historiques than a 
thousand years had given the ancient Marne city. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


63 


Jim Beckett had written his mother all about the town, 
and sent postcard pictures of its pride, the fortress-like, 
fifteenth-century church with a vast tower set upon a 
height. He liked Chateau-Thierry because Jean de la 
Fontaine was born there, and called it “a peaceful-looking 
place, just right for the dear fable-maker, who was so 
child-like and sweet-natured, that he deserved always to 
be happy, instead of for ever in somebody’s debt.” A 
soldier having seen the wasted country at the front, might 
still describe Chateau-Thierry as a “peaceful-looking 
place.” But it was the first glimpse the Becketts had had 
of war’s abominable destruction. I took up nursing in 
the south of France before the Zeppelins made much visi- 
ble impression on London; and as I volunteered for a 
“contagious” hospital, I’ve lived an isolated life far from 
all horrors save those in my own ward, and the few I saw 
when I went to nurse Brian. Perhaps it was well for us 
to begin with Chateau-Thierry, whose gaping wounds are 
not mortal, and to miss tragic Varreddes. Had Sermaize- 
les-Bains, which burst upon us later, been our first experi- 
ence, the shock might have been too great for Mrs. Beck- 
ett. As it was, we worked slowly to the climax. Yet even 
so, we travelled on with a hideous mirage of broken homes, 
of intimacies brutally laid bare, floating between the land- 
scape and our eyes. We could not get rid of this mirage, 
could not brush it away, though the country was friendly 
and fair of face as a child playing in a waterside meadow. 
The crudely new bridges that crossed the Marne were the 
only open confessions of what the river had suffered. But 
the Marne spirit had known wars enough to learn “how 
sweet it is to live, forgetting.” With her bits of villages 


64 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


scattered like strewn flowers on her green flood, she floats 
in a dream of her adventurous past and the glorious future 
which she has helped to win for France. 

It was hard to realize that the tiny island villages and 
hamlets on the level shores had seen the Germans come 
and go; that under the gray roofs — furry-soft as the backs 
of Maltese cats — hearts had beaten in agony of fear; that 
along the white road, with its double row of straight trees 
like an endless army on parade, weeping fugitives had 
fled. 

We were not aiming to reach Nancy that night, so we 
paused at Epernay. The enemy behaved better there 
than in most Marne towns, perhaps because Wagner once 
lived in it, or, more likely, under the soothing influence of 
Epernay’s champagne, which has warmed the cockles of 
men’s hearts since a bishop of the ninth century made it 
famous by his praise. Nevertheless, there are ruins to 
see, for the town was bombarded by the Germans after 
they were turned out. All the quarter of the rich was laid 
waste: and the vast “Fabrique de Champagne” of Mercier, 
with its ornamental frieze of city names, is silent to this 
day, its proud fagade of windows broken. Not a big 
building of the town, not a neighbouring chateau of a 
“Champagne baron” has a whole window-pane visible, 
though three years have rolled on since the cannonading 
did its work! Nowadays glass is as dear as diamonds in 
France, and harder to get. 

Outside Champagnopolis, in the wide wooden village of 
hospital huts, a doctor told us a war ghost story. One 
night the Germans made a great haul of champagne, of a 
good year, in a castle near by. They had knocked off 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


65 


the heads of many bottles, naming each for a French 
general of yesterday or to-day, when some officer who knew 
more history than the rest remembered that Henri IV had 
taken Epernay in 1592. He named his bottle for Henri 
de Navarre, and harangued his comrades on the superiority 
of Wilhelm von Hohenzollern. As the speechmaker 
cracked the neck with his sword, the bottle burst in a 
thousand pieces, drenching everyone with wine. A bit 
of glass struck the electric lamp over the table, and out 
went the light. For an instant the room was black. 
Then a white ray flickered on the wall, as if thrown through 
the window by a searchlight. Out of its glimmer stepped 
a man, with a long, laughing face and a pointed beard. 
Round his neck was a high ruff. He wore a doublet of 
velvet, and shining silk hose. In his hand was a silver 
goblet, frothing over the top with champagne. ‘‘He 
drinks best who drinks last!” cried he in French, and 
flung the goblet at the face of him who named the bottle. 
At the same second there was a great explosion, and only 
one soldier escaped; he who told the story. 

Think, Padre, it was near Chalons that Attila was 
defeated, and forced to fly from France for ever! I ought 
to say, Attila the first, since the self-named Attila H 
hasn’t yet been beaten back beyond the Rhine. 

We — ^you, and Brian and I — used to have excited argu- 
ments about reincarnation. You know now which of us 
was right! But I cling to the theory of the spiral, in 
evolution of the soul — the soul of a man or the soul of the 
world. It satisfies my sense of justice and my reason both, 
to believe that we must progress, being made for progres- 
sion; but that we evolve upward slowly, with a spiral 


66 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


motion which brings us at certain periods, as we rise, 
directly above the last earth-phase in our evolution. If 
it’s true, here, after nearly thirteen centuries, are the 
Huns overrunning Europe once more. Learned Huns, 
scientific Huns, but always Hims, repeating history on a 
higher scale, barbarously bent on pulling down the 
liberty of the world by the power of brute force. Again 
they’re destined to be conquered as before, at a far bigger 
price. What will the next turn of their spiral bring, I 
wonder? A vast battle of intellect, perhaps, when wars of 
blood have been forgotten. And I wonder, too, where has 
Attila been, since he was beaten in this Champagne coun- 
try of the Marne, and died two years later at his wedding- 
feast in Hungary ! 

Did he appear in our world again, in the form of some 
great, cruel general or king, or did his soul rest until it 
was reincarnated in the form that claims his name to-day? 

I could scarcely concentrate upon Chalons, though it’s a 
noble town, crowded with grand old buildings. My mind 
was busily travelling back, back into history, as Peter 
Ibbetson travelled in his prison-dreams. It didn’t stop 
on its way to see the city capitulate to the Allies in 1814, 
just one hundred years before the great new meaning came 
into that word “allies.” I ran past the brave fifteenth- 
century days, when the English used to attack Chdlons- 
sur-Marne, hoping to keep their hold on France. I 
didn’t even pause for Saint-Bernard, preaching the Crusade 
in the gorgeous presence of Louis VII and his knights. 
It was Attila who lured me down, down into his century, 
buried deep under the sands of Time. I heard the ring of 
George Meredith’s words: “Attila, my Attila!” But 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


67 


I saw the wild warrior Attila, fighting in Champagne, not 
the dead man adjured by Ildico, his bride. I saw him 
“short, swarthy, broad-chested,” in his crude armour, his 
large head, “early gray,” lifted like a wolf’s at bay. I saw 
his fierce, ugly face with its snub nose and little, deep-set 
eyes, flushed in the fury of defeat as he ordered the famous 
screen of chariots to be piled up between him and the 
Romano-Gauls. I saw him and his men profiting by the 
strange barrier, and the enemy’s exhaustion, to escape 
beyond the Rhine, with eyes yearning toward the coun- 
try they were to see no more. 

History calls that battle “one of the decisive battles of 
the world,” yet it lasted only a day, and engaged from a 
hundred and seventy-four thousand to three hundred 
thousand men. Oh, the spiral of battles has climbed 
high since then ! 

I think I should have had a presentiment of the war if 
I’d lived at Chdlons, proud city of twenty-two bridges and 
the Canal Rhine-Marne. The water on stormy days must 
have whispered, “ They are coming. Take care ! ” 

At Vitry-le-Frangois there is also that same sinister canal 
which leads from the Marne to the Rhine, the Rhine to 
the Marne. The name has a wicked sound in these days — 
Rhine-Marne; and at Vitry-le-Frangois of all places. The 
men from over the Rhine destroyed as much as they had 
time to destroy of the charming old town planned by 
Francis I, and named for him. All the villages round 
about the new Huns broke to pieces, like the toy towns of 
children : Revigny, sprayed from hand pumps with petrol, 
and burnt to the ground: Sermaize-les-Bains, loved by 
Romans and Saracens, obliterated; women drowned in 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


the river by laughing German soldiers, deep down under 
yellow water-lilies, which mark their resting place to-day; 
everywhere, through the fields and forests, low wooden 
crosses in the midst of little votive gardens, telling their 
silent tale. 

Ah, but it is good that Mother Beckett saw Chdteau- 
Thierry first, or she might have covered her eyes and 
begged to go back to Paris ! Here all speaks of death and 
desolation, save the busy little hut-villages of the 
Quakers. The “Friends” quietly began their labour of 
love before the Battle of the Marne was ended, and 
they’re “carrying on” still. The French translate them 
affectionately into “ les Amis,** 

It was at Bar-le-Duc that I met disaster face to face in so 
strange a way that it needs a whole letter to tell you what 
happened. 


CHAPTER VIII 


HERE were so many things to see by the way, and 



so many thoughts to think about them, that 


-M- Father Beckett and Brian decided on an all night 
stop at Bar-le-Duc. The town hadn’t had an air raid for 
weeks, and it looked a port of peace. As well imagine 
enemy aeroplanes over the barley-sugar house of the witch 
in the enchanted forest, as over this comfortable home of 
jam-makers ! 

“Jim always asked for currant jam of Bar-le-Duc on 
his birthdays, ever since he was a little, little boy,” Mrs. 
Beckett remembered aloud. “And even when he was 
grown up ! But then, he wouldn’t wait for birthdays. 
He wanted it every day for breakfast; and for tea at those 
grand New York hotels, where I wouldn’t go without him, 
any sooner than in a lion’s den. Oh, it will be nice to stay 
at Bar-le-Duc! If there’s been a jam factory blown up, 
we’ll help build it again, to please Jim.” 

Father Beckett was shrewdly of opinion that the jam 
factories could take care of themselves, which rather dis- 
appointed his wife. She was vaguely disappointed too, in 
Bar-le-Duc. I think she expected to smell a ravishing 
fragrance of Jim’s favourite confiture as we entered the 
town. It had been a tiring day for her, with all our stops 
and sightseeing, and she had less appetite for history than 
for jam. We had passed through lovely country since 


70 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Chalons, decorated with beautiful tall trees, high box 
hedges, and distant, rolling downs golden with grain and 
sunlight. Also, whenever our road drew near the rail- 
way, we’d caught exciting glimpses of long trains “camou- 
flaged” in blurry greens and blues, to hide themselves from 
aeroplanes. Nevertheless, Mother Beckett had begun to 
droop. Her blue eyes hardly brightened to interest when 
Brian said we were in the famous region of the Meuse, 
part of the Austrian Empire in Charlemagne’s day: that 
somewhere hereabout Wittekind, the enslaved Saxon, 
used to work “on the land,” not dreaming of the kingly 
house of Capet he was to found for France, and that 
Bar-le-Duc itself would be our starting-point for Verdun, 
after Nancy and the “Lorraine Front.” 

For her Bar-le-Duc had always represented jam, endless 
jam, loved by Jim, and talk of the dukes of Bar brought 
no thrill to Jim’s mother. She cared more to see the two 
largest elms in France of which Jim had written, than any 
ruins of ducal dwellings or tombs of Lorraine princes, or 
even the house where Charles-Edouard the Pretender 
lived for years. 

Fortunately there was a decent hotel, vaguely open in 
the upper town on the hill, with a view over the small 
tributary river Ornain, on which the capital city of the 
Meuse is built. One saw the Rhine-Marne Canal, too, and 
the picturesque roofs of old fifteenth-century houses, 
huddled together in lower Bar-le-Duc, shut in among the 
vine-draped valleys of Champagne. 

As we left the car and went into the hotel (I lingering 
behind to help Brian) I noticed another car behind us. 
It was more like a taxi-cab than a brave, free-born auto- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


71 


mobile, but it had evidently come a long way, as it was 
covered with dust, and from its rather ramshackle roof 
waved a Red Cross flag. 

In the good days before the war I should have thought 
it the most natural thing on earth if a procession of twenty 
motors had trailed us. But war has put an end to joy- 
rides. Besides, since the outskirts of Paris, we had been 
in the zone de guerre, constantly stopped and stared at by 
sentinels. The only cars we passed, going east or west, 
were occupied by officers, or crowded with poilus, there- 
fore the shabby little taxi became of almost startling in- 
terest. I looked back, and saw that it was slowing down 
close behind our imposing auto, from which a few small 
pieces of luggage for the night were being removed. 

The Red Cross travellers were evidently impatient. 
They did not wait for our chauffeur to drive away. The 
conductor of the car jumped down and opened the door 
of his nondescript vehicle. I made out, under a thick 
coat of dust, that he wore khaki of some sort, and a cap 
of military shape which might be anything from British 
to Belgian. He gave a hand to a woman in the car — a 
woman in nurse’s dress. A thick veil covered her face, 
but her figure was girlish. I noticed that she was ex- 
tremely small and slim in her long, dust-dimmed blue 
cloak: a mere doll of a creature. 

The man’s back was turned toward me as he aided the 
nurse; but suddenly he flung a glance over his shoulder, 
and stared straight at me, as if he had expected to find me 
there. 

He was rather short, and too squarely built for his age, 
which might be twenty-eight or thirty at most; but his 


72 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


great dark eyes were splendid, so gorgeously bright and 
significant that they held mine for a second or two. This 
vexed me, and I turned away with as haughty an air as 
could be put on at an instant’s notice. 

The hotel had no private sitting rooms, but the land- 
lord offered Mr. Beckett for our use a small salle de lecture, 
adjourning the salon 'public. There were folding doors 
between, for a wonder with a lock that worked. By the 
time we’d bathed, and dressed again, it was the hour for 
dinner, and Mr. Beckett suggested dining in our own 
“parlour,’ ’ as he called it. 

The landlord himself brought a menu, which Mother 
Beckett accepted indifferently up to the entremets ome- 
lette au rhum.^* This she wished changed for something — 
anything — made with Jim’s favourite jam. “He would 
want us to eat it at Bar-le-Duc,” she said, with her air of 
taking Jim’s nearness and interest in our smallest acts 
for granted. 

So omelette a la confiture de groseilles^* was ordered; 
and just as we had come to the end of it and our meal, 
some one began to play the piano in the public drawing 
room next door. At the first touch, I recognized a 
master hand. The air was from Puccini’s “La Tosca” — 
third act, and a moment later a man’s voice caught it up — 
a voice of velvet, a voice of the heart — an Italian voice. 

We all stopped eating as if we’d been struck by a spell. 
We hardly breathed. The music had in it the honey of a 
million flowers distilled into a crystal cup. It was so 
sweet that it hurt — ^hurt horribly and deliciously, as only 
Italian music can hurt. Other men sing with their 
brains, with their souls, but Italians sing with their blood. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 73 

their veins, the core of their hearts. They are their songs 
as larks are. 

The voice brought Jim to me, and snatched him away 
again. It set him far off at a hopeless distance, across 
steep purple chasms of dreamland. It dragged my heart 
out, and then poured it full, full of an unknown elixir of 
life and love, which was mine, yet out of reach forever. 
It showed me my past hopes and future sorrows floating 
on the current of my own blood like ships of a secret 
argosy sailing through the night to some unknown goal. 
So now, when I have told you what it did to me, you will 
know that voice was like no voice I ever heard, except 
Caruso’s. It was like his — ^astonishingly like; and hardly 
had the last note of “ Mario’s ” song of love and death drop- 
ped into silence when the singer began anew with one of 
Caruso’s own Neapolitan folk-songs, “Mama Mia.” 

I had forgotten Mother and Father Beckett — even Brian 
— everyone except my lost Jim Wyndham and myself. 
But suddenly a touch on my hand made me start. The 
little old lady’s, small, cool fingers were on mine, “My 
daughter, what do the words mean?” she asked. “What 
is that boy saying to his mama?” Her eyes were blue 
lakes of unshed tears, for the thought of her son knocked 
at her heart. 

“It isn’t a boy who sings, dear,” I said. “It’s sup- 
posed to be a young man who tries to tell his mother 
all about his love, but it is too big for any words he can 
find. He says she must remember how she felt herself 
when she was in love, and then she will understand what’s 
in his heart.” 

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” she whispered. “How young i^ 


74 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


sounds ! Can it be a man singing? It seems too beautiful 
for anything but a gramophone ! ” 

We broke out laughing, and the little lady blushed in 
shame. “I mean, it’s like one of the great singers they 
make records of,” she explained. “There, he’s stopped. 
Oh, James, don’t let him go! We must hear him again. 
Couldn’t you go next door and thank him? Couldn’t you 
beg him to sing some more? ” 

An Englishman would sooner have died a painful death 
then obey; but, unabashed, the American husband flung 
wide open the folding doors. 

At the piano sat the short, square-built young man of 
the Red Cross taxi. Leaning with both elbows on the 
instrument stood the doll-like figure of his companion, the 
girl in nurse’s dress. His back and her profile were turned 
our way, but at the sound of the opening door he wheeled 
on the stool, and both stared at Mr. Beckett. Also they 
stared past him at me. Why at me, and not the others, 
I could never have guessed then. 

Our little room was lit by red-shaded candles on the 
table, while the salon adjoining blazed with electricity. 
As the doors opened, it was like the effect of a flashlight 
for a photograph. I saw that the man and the girl resem- 
bled each other in feature; nevertheless, there was a 
striking difference between the two. It wasn’t only that 
he was squarely built, with a short throat, and a head 
shaped like Caruso’s, whereas she was slight, with a small, 
high-held head on a slender neck. The chief difference 
lay in expression. The man — ^who now looked younger 
than I had thought — ^had a dark, laughing face, gay and 
defiant as a Neapolitan street boy. It might be evil, it 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


75 


might be good. The girl, who could be no more than 
twenty, was sullen in her beauty as a thundercloud. 

The singer jumped up, and took a few steps forward, 
while the girl stood still and gloomed. 

“I hope I didn’t disturb you?” The question was 
asked of Mr. Beckett, and thrown lightly as a shuttle- 
cock over the old man’s head to us in the next room. It 
was asked in English, with a curiously winning accent, 
neither Italian nor Irish, but suggesting both. 

“Disturbed!” Father Beckett explained that his 
errand was to beg for more music. “It’s like being at 
the opera ! ” was the best compliment he had to give. 

The young man smiled as if a light had been turned on 
behind his eyes and his brilliant white teeth. “De- 
lighted ! ” he said. “I can’t sing properly nowadays — shell 
shock. I suppose I never shall again. But I do my best.” 

He sat down once more at the piano, and without asking 
his audience to choose, began in a low voice an old, sweet, 
entirely banal and utterly heart-breaking ballad of 
Tosti’s, with words by Christina Rossetti: 

“When I am dead, my dearest, 

Sing no sad songs for me. 

Plant thou no roses at my head. 

Nor shady cypress tree. 

Be the green grass above me 
With showers and dewdrops wet. 

And if thou wilt, remember. 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain; 


76 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


I shall not hear the nightingale 
Sing on as if in pain. 

And dreaming through the twilight 
That does not rise nor set. 

Haply I may remember, 

And haply may forget.” 

The words were of no great depth or worth, and the 
music was too intentionally heart-wringing to be sincerely 
fine, yet sung by that man’s voice, the piano softly touched 
by his hands, the poor old song took my self-control 
and shivered it like thin glass. Tears burst from Mrs. 
Beckett’s eyes, and she hid her face on my shoulder, sob- 
bing beneath her breath: “Oh, Jim — ^Jim!” 

When the singer had finished he looked at her, not in 
surprise, but thoughtfully. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have 
sung that stuff, Mr. Beckett,” he said. “But your son 
liked it at St. Raphael. We knew each other there, very 
well.” 

As he spoke his eyes turned to me, deliberately, with 
meaning. There was a gentle, charming smile on his 
southern face, but I knew, as if he had told me in so many 
words, that my secret was his. 

Involuntarily I glanced at the girl. She had not moved. 
She stood as before, her elbows on the piano, her small face 
propped between her hands. But she, too, was looking at 
me. She had no expression whatever. Her eyes told as 
little as two shut windows with blinds drawn down. The 
fancy flashed through me that a judge might look thus 
waiting to hear the verdict of the jury in a murder case. 

“These two have followed us on purpose to denounce 
me,” I thought. Yet it seemed a stupidly melodramatic 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


77 


conclusion, like the climax of a chapter in an old-fashioned, 
sentimental story. Besides, the man — evidently the 
leader — ^had not at all the face of Nemesis. He looked a 
merry, happy-go-lucky Italian, only a little subdued at the 
moment by the pathos of his own nightingale voice and 
the memory of Jim Beckett. I was bewildered. My 
reason did not know what to make of him. But my in- 
stinct warned me of danger. 

Mother Beckett dried her eyes with one of her dainty 
handkerchiefs which always smell like lavender and grass 
pinks — ^her leitmotif in perfume. “You knew our Jim.^” 
she exclaimed, choking back tears. “Why, then, perhaps 
you and Mary — Miss O’Malley ” 

What would have happened if she had finished her 
sentence I shall never know, for just then came a crash as 
if the house were falling. Window-glass shivered. The 
hotel shook as though in an earthquake. Out went the 
electric light, leaving only our candles aglow under red 
shades. 

Bar-le-Duc was in for an air raid. 


CHAPTER IX 


OR a moment we thought the house had been 



struck by a bomb, and were astonished that it 


JL stood. In the uproar of explosions and crashings 
and jinglings, the small silence of our room — with its gay 
chrysanthemums and shaded candles — ^was like that of a 
sheltered oasis in a desert storm. 

Not one of us uttered a sound. Father Beckett took his 
wife in his arms, and held her tight, her face hidden in his 
coat. Brian had not even got up from his chair by the 
table. He’d lighted a cigarette, and continued to smoke 
calmly, a half-smile on his face, as if the bombardment 
carried him back to life in the trenches. But the beautiful 
sightless eyes searched for what they could not see: and I 
knew that I was in his thoughts. I would have gone to 
him, after the first petrifying instant of surprise, but the 
singing-man stopped me. “Are you afraid?” I heard 
his voice close to my ear. Perhaps he shouted . But in the 
din it was as if he whispered. 

“No!” I fiung back. “Had you not better go and take 
care of your sister?” 

He laughed. “My sister! Look at her! Does she 
need taking care of?” 

The girl had come from the suddenly darkened salon 
into our room. As he spoke, she walked to the table, 
helped herself to a cigarette from Brian’s silver case which 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 79 

lay open, and asked its owner for a light. It struck me 
that she did not realize his blindness. 

Certainly the young woman did not ‘‘need taking care 
of.” Nor did I ! Deliberately I turned my back upon the 
man; but he snatched at the end of a scarf I wore. “No 
one’s looking,” he said. “ Take this — ^for your own sake.” 
And he thrust into a little outside pocket of my dress a 
folded bit of paper. Then he let me go, stepping back to 
prevent my returning the note. 

For a second I hesitated, not knowing which of two evils 
to choose; but the woman who hesitates is inevitably lost. 
Before I could make up my mind, the door opened and the 
landlord appeared, apologizing for the raid as if it had been 
an accident of his kitchen. We must have no fear. All 
danger was over. The avion — only one! — ^had been 
chased out of our neighbourhood. The noise we heard 
now was merely shrapnel fired by anti-aircraft guns. We 
would not be disturbed again, that he’d guarantee from 
his experience! 

Mrs. Beckett emerged from her husband’s coat. Mr. 
Beckett laughed, and patting his wife’s shoulder, com- 
plimented her courage. “ I’m not sure we haven’t behaved 
pretty well for our first air raid,” he said. “The rest of 
you were fine ! But I suppose even you ladies have seen 
some of these shows before? As for you, Brian, my boy, 
you’re a soldier. What we’ve been through must seem a 
summer shower to you. And you, sir” — ^he turned to the 
singing-man — “I think you mentioned you’d had shell 
shock ” 

“Yes,” the other answered quickly. “It cost me my 
voice.” 


80 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“Cost you your voice?” Father Beckett echoed. “If 
it was better than it is now, why, it must have been a 
marvel! We’re ignorant in the music line, my wife aivd I, 
so if we ought to know who you are ” 

The young man laughed. “Oh, don’t be afraid of hurt- 
ing my feelings! If you were an Italian, or a Britisher — 
but an American! I sang in New York only part of 
last winter, and then I — came over here, like every- 
one else. My name is Julian O’Farrell, but my 
mother was an Italian of Naples, once a prima donna. 
She wished me to make my professional debut Giulio 
di Napoli.” 

The name appeared to mean nothing for the Becketts, 
but instantly I knew who the man was, if little about 
him. I remembered reading of the sensation he created 
in London the summer that Brian and I tramped through 
France and Belgium. The next I heard was that he had 
“gone back” to Italy. I had of course supposed him 
to be an Italian. But now he boasted — or confessed — • 
that he was an Irishman. Why, then, had he left England 
for Italy when the war broke out? Why had he been 
singing in New York after Italy joined the Allies? Above 
all, what had happened since, to put him on my track, with 
a Red Cross flag and a taxi-cab? 

These questions asked themselves in my head, while I 
could have counted “One — two — ^three.” Meantime, 
Brian had spoken to the girl, and she had answered shortly, 
in words I could not hear, but with a sullen, doubtful look, 
like a small trapped creature that snaps at a friendly hand. 
The landlord was helping a white-faced waiter to clear a 
place on the table for a tray of coffee and liqueurs; and 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 81 

outside the noise of shrapnel had died in the distance. 
The air-raid incident was closed. What next? 

“You’ll both have coffee with us, won’t you, Signor di 
Napoli — or Mr. O’Farrell? Or should I say Lieutenant or 
Captain?” Father Beckett was urging. “You were a 
friend of our son’s, and my wife and I ” 

“Plain Mister O’Farrell it is,” the other broke in. 
“Thanks, it would be a pleasure to stay, but it’s best to 
refuse, I’m sure, for my sister’s sake. You see by her dress 
what her work has been, and she’s on leave because she’s 
tired out. She faints easily — and what with the air raid — 
maybe you’ll let us pay our respects before you leave to- 
morrow? Then we’ll tell you all you want to know. 
Anyhow, we may be going on for some time in your 
direction. I saw by a Paris paper a few days ago you 
were making a tour of the Fronts, beginning at the Lor- 
raine end.” 

• His eyes were on me as he spoke, bright with imp-like 
malice. He looked so like a mischievous schoolboy that 
it was hard to take him seriously. Yet everything warned 
me to do so, and his allusion to the Paris newspapers ex- 
plained much. For the second time a reporter had caught 
Father Beckett, and got out of him the statement that 
“My dead son’s fiancee. Miss Mary O’Malley, who’s been 
nursing in a ‘contagious’ hospital near St. Raphael, will 
be with us: and her brother.” 

So that was how the man had heard about me, and for 
some reason found it worth while to follow, waving the 
sword of Damocles ! His note burned my pocket. And I 
burned to know what it said. No doubt it would explain 
why he did not cut off my head at once, and have it over! 


82 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


*^‘1 think,” he was going on, “that the sooner I can get 
this poor little girl” (a tap on his sister’s shoulder) “to 
her room and to bed the better it will be.” 

Any one apparently less likely to faint, or less in need of 
rest, than the “poor little girl” indicated, it would be 
difficult to find, I thought: but the kindly Becketts were 
the last creatures to be critical. They sympathized, and 
changed their invitation from after-dinner coffee to break- 
fast at nine. This was accepted by O’Farrell for himself 
and his sister, and taking the girl’s arm, the ex-singer 
swept her off in a dramatic exit. 

When they had gone, it was Brian who asked me if I had 
known them in the south; and because no incentive could 
make me lie to Brian, I promptly answered “No.” As I 
spoke, it occurred to me that now, if ever, was the moment 
when I might still succeed in spoking the wheel of Mr. and 
Miss O’Farrell before that wheel had time to crush me. I 
could throw doubt upon their good faith. I could hint 
that, if they had really been doing Red Cross or other work 
at St. Raphael, I should certainly have heard of them. But 
I held my peace — ^partly through qualms of conscience, 
partly through fear. Unless the man had proofs to bring 
of his honafides where Jim Beckett was concerned, he would 
scarcely have followed us to claim acquaintance with the 
parents and confound the alleged fiancee. That he had 
followed us on purpose I was sure. Not for a second did I 
believe that the arrival of the taxi-cab in our wake was a 
coincidence ! 

We drank our coffee, talking of the raid and of the 
O’Farrells, and — as always — of Jim. Then Father Beck- 
ett noticed that his wife was pale. “She looks as if she 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


83 


needed bed a good sight more than that little girl did,” he 
said in the simple, homely way I’ve learned to love. 

Presently we had all bidden each other good-night, even 
Brian and I. Then — in my own room — was free to take 
that folded bit of paper from my pocket. 


CHAPTER X 


T O MY surprise, there were only three lines, scrib- 
bled in pencil. 

“Come to the sahn for a talk when the rest of 
your party have gone to bed. I’ll be waiting, and won’t 
keep you long.” 

“Impudent brute!” I said out aloud. But a moment 
later I had decided to keep the appointment and learn the 
worst. Needs must, when the devil drives! — if you’re in 
the power of the devil. I was. And, alas! through my 
fault, so was Brian. After going so far, I could not af- 
ford to be thrown back without a struggle; and I went 
downstairs prepared to fight. 

It was not yet late; only a few minutes after ten o’clock; 
and though the Becketts and Brian were on the road to 
sleep, the hotel was awake, and even lively in its wakeful- 
ness. The door of the public salon stood open, and the 
electric light had come on again. At the table, in the centre 
of the room, sat Mr. Julian O’Farrell, alias Giulio di Na- 
poli, conspicuously interested in an illustrated paper. He 
jumped up at sight of me, and smiled a brilliant smile of 
welcome, but did not speak. A sudden, obstinate deter- 
mination seized me to thwart him, if he meant to force the 
first move upon me. I bowed coolly, as one acknowledges 
the existence of an hotel acquaintance, and passing to the 
other end of the long table, picked up a Je Sais Tout of a 
date two years before the war. 

84 


EVERYMAN LAND 


85 


I did not sit down, but assumed the air of hovering for a 
moment on my way elsewhere. This manoeuvre kept the 
enemy on his feet; and as the cheap but stately clock on 
the mantel ticked out second after second, I felt nervously 
inclined to laugh, despite the seriousness of my situation. 
I bit my lip hard to frighten away a smile that would have 
spoilt everything. “If it goes on like this for an hour,” 
I said to myself, “I won’t open my mouth!” 

Into the midst of this vow broke an explosion of laugh- 
ter that made me start as if it announced a new bom- 
bardment. I looked up involuntarily, and met the dark 
Italian eyes sparkling with fun. ‘T beg your pardon!” 
the man gurgled. “ I was wondering which is older, your 
Je Sais Tout or my Illustration ? Mine’s the Christmas 
number of 1909.” 

“Yours has the advantage in age,” I replied, without a 
smile. “Mine goes back only to 1912.” 

“Ah! I’m glad to score that one point,” he said, still 
laughing. “Dear Miss O’Malley, won’t you please sit 
down? I’m a lazy fellow, and I’m so tired of standing! 
Now, don’t begin by being cross with me because I call you 
‘dear.’ If you realized what I’ve done for you, and what 
I’m ready to do, you’d say I’d earned that right, to begin 
with ! ” 

“I don’t understand you at all, or why you should 
claim any right,” I hedged. But I sat down, and he sank 
so heavily into an ancient, plush-covered chair that a 
spray of dust flew up from the cushions. 

“I’m afraid I’m rather too fat!” he apologized. “But 
I always lose flesh motoring, so you’ll see a change for the 
better, I hope — in a week or two. I expect our lines will be 


86 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


cast in the same places for some time to come — if you’re as 
wise as — as you are pretty. If not, I’m afraid you and 
Mr. O’Malley won’t be long with our party. I say, you 
are gorgeous when you’re in a rage! But why fly into a 
fury.'^ You told me you didn’t understand things. I’m 
doing my best to explain.” 

“Then your best is very bad,” I said. 

“Sorry! I’ll begin another way. Listen! I’m going to 
be perfectly frank. Why not? We’re birds of a feather. 
And the pot can’t call the kettle black. Maybe my similes 
are a bit mixed, but you’ll excuse that, as we’re both Irish. 
Why, my being Irish — and Italian — is an explanation of 
me in itself, if you’d take the trouble to study it. But look 
here ! I don’t want you to take any trouble. I don’t want 
to give you any trouble. Now do you begin to see light?” 

“No!” I threw at him. 

“I don’t believe you, dear girl. You malign your own 
wits. You pay yourself worse compliments than I’d let 
any one else do! But I promised not to keep you long. 
And if I break my promise it will be your fault — ^because 
you’re not reasonable. You’re the pot and I’m the kettle, 
because we’re both tarred with the same brush. By the 
way, are pots and kettles blacked with tar? They look it. 
But that’s a detail. My sister and I are just as dead broke 
and down and out as you and your brother are. I mean, 
as you were, and as you may be again, if you make mis- 
takes.” 

“I’d rather not bring my brother into this discussion,” 
I said. “He’s too far above it — and us. You can do as 
you choose about your sister.” 

“I can make her do as I choose,” he amended. “That’s 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


87 


where my scheme came in, and where it still holds good. 
When I read the news of Pa and Ma Beckett arriving in 
Paris, it jumped into my head like a — like a ” 

“Toad,” I supplied the simile. 

“I was leaving it to you,” said he. “I thought you 
ought to know, for by a wonderful coincidence which should 
draw us together, the same great idea must have occurred 
to you — in the same way, and on the same day. I bet you 
the first hundred francs I get out of old Beckett that it was 
so!” 

“Mr. O’Farrell, you’re a Beast!” I cried. 

“And you’re a Beauty. So there we are, cast for oppo- 
site parts in the same play. Queer how it works out! 
Looks like the hand of Providence. Don’t say what you 
want to say, or I shall be afraid you’ve been badly brought 
up. North of Ireland, I understand. We’re South. 
Dierdre’s a Sinn Feiner. You needn’t expect mercy from 
her, unless I keep her down with a strong hand — the Hid- 
den Hand. She hates you Northerners about ten times 
worse than she hates the Huns. Now you look as if you 
thought her name wasnH Dierdre ! It is, because she took 
it. She takes a lot of things, when I’ve showed her how. 
For instance, photographs. She has several snapshots of 
Jim Beckett and me together. I have some of him and 
her. They’re pretty strong cards (I don’t mean a pun!) 
if we decide to use them. Don’t you agree? ” 

“I neither agree nor disagree,” I said, “for I understand 
you no better now than when you began.” 

“You’re like Mr. Justice What’s-his-name, who’s so 
innocent he never heard of the race course. Well, I must 
adapt myself to your child-like intelligence! I’ll go back 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


a bit to an earlier chapter in my career, the way novels and 
cinemas do, after they’ve given the public a good, bright 
opening. It was true, what I said about my voice. I’ve 
lost everything but my middle register. I had a fortune in 
my throat. At present I’ve got nothing but a warble fit for 
a small drawing room — and that, only by careful manage- 
ment. I knew months ago I could never sing again in 
opera. I was coining money in New York, and would be 
now — if they hadn’t dug me out as a slacker — an embusquS 
— whatever you like to call it. I was a conscientious 
objector: that is, my conviction was it would be sinful to 
risk a bullet in a chest full of music, like .mine — a treasure- 
chest. But the fools didn’t see it in that light. They made 
America too hot to hold either Giulio di Napoli or Julian 
O’Farrell. I’m no coward — I swear to you I’m not, my 
dear girl! You’ve only to look me square in the face to 
see I’m not. I’m full of fire. But ever since I was a boy 
I’ve lived for my voice, and you can’t die for your voice, 
like you can for your country. It goes — ^pop ! — with you. 
I managed to convince the doctors that my heart was too 
jumpy for the trenches. I see digitalis in your eye. Miss 
Trained Nurse! It wasn’t. It was strophantis. But 
they would set me to driving a motor ambulance — cold- 
hearted brutes ! I got too near the front line one day — or 
rather the front line got too near me, and a shell hit my am- 
bulance. The next thing I knew I was in hospital, and the 
first thing I thought of was my voice. A frog would have 
disowned it. I hoped for a while it might come right; but 
they sent me to St. Raphael for a sun cure, and — it didn’t 
work. That was last spring. I’m as well as I ever was, 
except in my throat, and there the specialists say I need 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


89 


never expect to be better. I’d change with your brother. 
Miss O’Malley. My God, I would. If I could lose my 
eyes and have my voice again — my voice ! ” 

His flippancy broke down on those words, with one sin- 
cere and tragic note that touched me through my con- 
tempt. Watching, he saw this, and catching at self-control, 
he caught also at the straw of sympathy within his reach. 

‘‘I wanted to die for a while,” he went on. ‘‘But youth 
is strong, even when you’re down on your luck — down at 
the deepest. My sister came to St. Raphael to be with me. 
It may seem queer to you, but I’m her idol. She’s lost 
everything else — or rather she thinks she has, which is 
much the same — everything that made her life worth liv- 
ing. She wanted to be a singer. Her voice wasn’t strong 
enough. She wanted to be an actress. She knew how to 
act, but — she couldn'U Heaven knows why. She’s got 
temperament enough, but she couldn’t let herself out. 
You see what she’s lik«! She failed in America, where 
she’d followed me against our mother’s will. Mother died 
while we were there. Another blow ! And a man Dierdre’s 
been half engaged to was killed in Belgium. She didn’t 
love him, but he was made of money. It would have been 
a big match ! She took to nursing only after I was called 
up. You know in France a girl doesn’t need much experi- 
ence to get into a hospital. But poor little Dare wasn’t 
more of a success at nursing than on the stage. Not 
enough self-confidence — too sensitive. People think she’s 
always in the sulks — and so she is, these days. I’d been 
trying for six months’ sick leave, and just got it when I 
read that stuff in the paper about Beckett being killed, and 
Lis parents hearing the news the day they arrived. It 


90 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


struck me like drama: things do. I was born dramatic — 
took it from my mother. The thought came to me, how 
dead easy ’twould be for some girl to pretend she’d been 
engaged to Beckett, and win her wily way to the hearts 
and pockets of the old birds. Next I thought: Why not 
Dierdre? And there wasn’t any reason why not! I told 
her it would be good practice in acting. (She hasn’t quite 
given up hope of the stage yet.) We started for Paris 
on the job; and then I read in a later copy of the same 
paper about the smart young lady who’d stepped in ahead 
of us. If old Beckett hadn’t been bursting with pride 
in the heroic girl who’d got a medal for nursing infectious 
cases in a hospital near St. Raphael, I’d have given up the 
game for a bad job. I’d have taken it for granted that 
Jim and the fiancee had met before we met him at St. 
Raphael. But when the paper said they’d made acquain- 
tance there, and gave your name and all, I knew you were 
on the same trail with us. You’d walked in ahead, that 
was the only difference. And we had the snapshots. We 
could call witnesses to swear that no nurse from your hos- 
pital had come near St. Raphael, and to swear that none 
of the chaps in the aviation school had ever come near 
them. Dierdre hadn’t been keen at first, but once she was 
in, she didn’t want to fail again; especially for a North of 
Ireland girl like you. She was ready to go on. But the 
newspaper gushed a good deal over your looks, you re- 
member. My curiosity was roused. I was — sort of 
obsessed by the thought of you. I decided to see what 
your head was like to look at before chopping it off. And 
anyhow, you’d already started on your jaunt. Through a 
rich chap I knew in New York, who’s over here helping the 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


91 


Red Cross, I got leave to carry supplies to the evacuated 
towns, provided I could find my own car. Well, I found 
it — such as it is. All I ask of it is not to break down till 
the Becketts have learned to love me as their dear, dead 
son’s best friend. As for Dare — what she was to the dear 
dead son depends on you.” 

“Depends on me?” I repeated. 

“Depends on you. Dare’s not a good Sunday-school 
girl, but she’s good to her brother — as good as you are to 
yours, in her way. She’ll do what I want. But the 
question is Will you ? ” 

For a moment I did not speak. Then I asked, “What 
do you want? ” 

“Only a very little thing,” he said. “To live and let 
live, that’s all. Don’t you try to queer my pitch, and I 
won’t queer yours.” 

“What is your pitch?” I asked. 

He laughed. “You’re very non-committal, aren’t you? 
But I like your pluck. You’ve never once admitted by 
word or look that you’re caught. All the same, you know 
you are. You can’t hurt me, and I can hurt you. Your 
word wouldn’t stand against my proofs, if you put up a 
fight. You’d go down — and your brother with you. Oh, 
I don’t think he’s in it! The minute I saw his face I was 
sure he wasn’t; and I guessed from yours that what you’d 
done was mostly or all for him. Now, dear Miss O’Malley, 
you know where you are with me. Isn’t that enough for 
you? Can’t you just be wise and promise to let me alone 
on my ‘pitch,’ whatever it is?” 

“I won’t have Mr. and Mrs. Beckett made fools of in 
any way.” 


92 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


He burst out laughing. “That’s good — from you! I 
give you leave to watch over their interests, if you let me 
take care of mine. Is it a bargain.? ” 

I did not answer. I was thinking — thinking furiously, 
when the landlord caUie to the door to put out the lights. 

O’Farrell sprang to his feet. “We’re ready to go. We 
can leave the room free, can’t we. Miss O’Malley.?” he 
said in French. 

Somehow, I found myself getting up, and fading out of 
the room as if I’d been hypnotized. I walked straight to 
the foot of the stairs, then turned at bay to deliver some 
ultimatum — I scarcely knew what. But O’Farrell had 
cleverly accomplished a vanishing act, and there was 
nothing left for me to do save go to my own room. 


CHAPTER XI 


T hinking things over in the night, I decided to 
wait until after breakfast before making up my 
mind to anything irrevocable. Breakfast being 
the appointed rendezvous, O’Farrell would then lay his 
cards on the table. If he slipped some up his sleeve, I must 
make it my business to spot the trick and its meaning for 
the Becketts. 

As I offered this sop to my conscience, I could almost 
hear O’Farrell saying, with one of his young laughs, 
“That’s right. Set a thief to catch a thief!” 

At ten o’clock we were to start for Nancy via Commercy, 
so there would be little time to reflect, and to act on top of 
reflection; but my strait being desperate, I resolved to 
trust to luck; and to be first on the field of battle, I knocked 
at Brian’s door at half -past eight. 

He was already dressed, and to look at his neat cravat 
and smoothly brushed hair no one would have guessed that 
his toilet had been made by a blind man. We had not yet 
exchanged opinions of the O’Farrell family, and I had come 
early to get his impressions. They were always as accu- 
rate and quickly built up as his sketches; but since he has 
been blind, he seems almost clairvoyant. 

“What do you think of those two?” I asked. “Or 
rather, what do you think of the man? I know you have 
to judge by voices; and as the girl hardly opened her 
mouth you can’t ” 


93 


94 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“Queer thing — and I don’t quite understand it myself,” 
said Brian; “but I see Miss O’Farrell more clearly than 
her brother.” 

He generally speaks of “seeing people,” quite as a 
matter of course. It used to give me a sharp pain at my 
heart; but I begin to take his way for granted now. 
“There’s something about O’Farrell that eludes me — slips 
away like quicksilver. One is charmed with his voice and 
his good looks ” 

“ Brian ! Who told you he was good-looking.^ ” I broke in, 

Brian laughed. “I told myself! His manner — so sure 
of his power to please — belongs to good looks. Besides, 
I’ve never known a tenor with any such quality of voice 
who hadn’t magnificent eyes. Why they should go to- 
gether is a mystery — but they do. Am I right about this 
chap?” 

“Yes, you’re right,” I admitted. “But go on. I’m 
more interested in him than in his sister.” 

“Are you? I’ve imagined her the more interesting — 
the more repaying — of the two. I see O’Farrell, not a bad 
fellow, but — not sure. 1 don’t believe he’s even sure of 
himself, whether he wants to be straight or crooked. How 
he turns out will depend — on circumstances, or perhaps on 
some woman. If he travels with us, he’ll be a pleasant 
companion, there’s no doubt. But ” 

“But — what?” 

“Well, we must always keep in mind that he’s an actor. 
We mustn’t take too seriously anything he says or does. 
And you, Molly — ^you must be more careful than the rest.’* 

“I! But I told you I’d never met him at St. Raphael. 
I never set eyes on him till last night.” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


95 


“I know. Yet I felt, when he ‘set eyes’ on you — oh, I 
don’t know how to express what I felt! Only — if it had 
happened on the stage, there’d have been music for it in 
the orchestra.” 

“Brian, how strange you are!” I almost gasped. 
“Ought we to let the man and his sister go on with us, if 
that’s their aim? Their Red Cross flag may be camou- 
flage, you know! Very likely they’re adventurers, after 
the Beckett’s money. We could advise Father and Mother 
Beck ” 

“Let’s follow a famous example, and ‘wait and see’ — 
if only for the girl’s sake.” 

“Oh, you think so well of her!” 

“Not well, exactly,” Brian hesitated. “I don’t know 
what to think of her yet. But — I think about her. I feel 
her, as I feel electricity before a thunderstorm bursts.” 

“A thunderstorm expresses her!” I laughed. “I 
thought of that myself. She’s sullen — brooding, dark as a 
cloud. Yet the tiniest thing! One could almost break 
her in two.” 

“I held out my hand for good-night,” Brian said. “She 
had to give hers, though I’m sure for some reason she 
didn’t want to. It was small and — crushable, like a 
child’s; and hot, as if she had fever.” 

“She didn’t want to take yours, because we’re North of 
Ireland and she’s a fierce Sinn Feiner,” I explained. 
Luckily Brian did not ask how I’d picked up this piece of 
information! He was delighted with it, and chuckled. 
“So she’s a Sinn Feiner! She’s very pretty, isn’t she?’* 

“In a cross-patch way. She looks ready to bite at a 
touch.” 


96 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


‘‘ Poor child ! Life must have gone hard with her. She’s 
probably got a grouch, as the American boys over here say. 
We must try and do something to soften her down, and 
make her see things through rosier spectacles, if she and her 
brother join on to our party for a while.” 

“Ye-es.” 

“You don’t like her, Molly?” 

“Oh, I’ve hardly thought of her, dear. But you seem 
to have made up for that.” 

“Thunderstorms make you think about them. They 
electrify the atmosphere. I see this girl so distinctly some- 
how: little, white thing; big, gloomy eyes like storms in 
deep woods, and thin eyelids — ^you know, that transpar- 
ent, flower-petal kind, where you fancy you see the iris 
looking through, like spirit eyes, always awake while the 
body’s eyes sleep; and — and lots of dark hair without much 
colour — hair like smoke. I see her a suppressed volcano — 
but not extinct.” 

“The day may come when we’ll wish she were extinct. 
But really you’ve described her better than I could, 
though I stared quite a lot last night. Come along, dear. 
It’s six minutes to nine. Let’s trot down to breakfast.” 

We trotted; but early as I’d meant to be, and early as 
we were, the O’Farrells and the Becketts were before us. 
How long they had been together I don’t know, but they 
must have finished their first instalment of talk about Jim, 
for already they had got on to the subject of plans. 

“Well, it will be noble of you to help us with supplies. 
The promise we’ve got from our American Red Cross man 
in Paris is limited,” O’Farrell was saying in his voice to 
charm a statue off its pedestal, as we came in. He 


97 


r EVERYMAN’S LAND 

sprang to shut the door for us, and gave me the look of a 
cherubic fox, as much as to say, “You see where we’ve got 
to ! But it’s all for the good cause. There’s more than one 
person not as black as he’s painted!” 

“Molly’s watch must be slow,” said Brian. “She 
thought it was only six minutes to nine.” 

“She’s right. But it seems the big clock in the hall out- 
side our door is fast,” explained Father Beckett. “We 
heard it strike nine, so we hurried down. The same thing 
happened with Mr. and Miss O’Farrell.” 

Another glance at me from the brilliant eyes! “Smart 
trick, eh?” they telegraphed. I had to turn away, or I 
should have laughed. Surely never before, on stage or in 
story — to say nothing of real life — ^was the villain and 
blackmailer a mischievous, schoolboy imp, who made his 
victims giggle at the very antics which caught them in his 
toils! But, come to think of it, I am a villain, and next 
door to a blackmailer! Yet I always see myself (unless I 
stop to reflect on my sins) as a girl like other girls, even 
better-natured and more agreeable and intelligent than 
most. Perhaps, after all, villains don’t run in types ! 

I soon learned that Father and Mother Beckett were 
rejoicing in the acquisition of Jim’s two friends as travelling 
companions. The celebrated snapshots were among the 
cards O’Farrell had kept up his sleeve. No doubt he’d 
waited to make sure of my attitude (though he appeared 
to take it for granted) before deciding what use to make of 
his best trumps. Seeing that I let slip my one and only 
chance of a denunciation-scene, he flung away his also, with 
an air of dashing chivalry which his sister and I alone were 
in a position to appreciate. For me it had been a case of 


98 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“speak now, or forever after hold your peace.” For him, 
a decision was not irrevocable, as he could denounce me 
later, and plead that I had been spared at first, through 
kindness of heart. But I did not stop to consider that 
detail. I saw the man and myself as accomplices, on an 
equal footing, each having given quarter to the other. As 
for the girl, I still thought of her hardly at all, in spite of 
Brian’s words. She was an unknown quantity, which I 
would waste no time in studying, while the situation that 
opened bade me sharpen my wits. 

In the five or ten minutes before we joined them the 
Becketts had consented — or offered — to help finance the 
Red Cross crusade. To achieve this was worthy of the 
Irish-Italian’s talents. But the little dining room was 
littered with samples of the travellers’ goods : clothing for 
repatriated refugees, hospital supplies; papier-mache 
splints, and even legs; shoes, stockings, medicines; soup- 
tablets, and chocolates. The O’Farrells might be doing 
evil, but good would apparently come from it for many. 
I could hardly advise the Becketts against giving money, 
even though I suspected that most of it would stick to 
O’Farrell’s fingers — even though I knew that the hope of it 
consoled Signor Giulio di Napoli for leaving me in my safe 
niche. Yes, that was his consolation, I realized. And — 
there might be something more which I did not yet foresee. 
Still, being no better than he was, I was coward enough to 
hold my peace. 

This was the situation when we set out for Nancy, our 
big car running slowly, in order not to outpace the rickety 
Red Cross cab. We were not allowed by the military 
authorities to enter Toul, so our way took us> through 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


99 


delightful old Commercy, birthplace of Madeleines. Of 
course the town had things to make it famous, long before 
the day of the shell-shaped cakelets which all true sons 
and daughters of France adore. Somebody founded it in 
the ninth century, when the bishops of Metz were the great 
overlords of its lords. It was a serious little city then, and 
Benedictine monks had a convent there in the Middle Ages. 
The fun began only with the building of the chateau, and 
the coming of the Polish Stanislas, the best loved and last 
Duke of Lorraine. He used to divide his years between 
Nancy, Luneville, and Commercy; and once upon a time, 
in the third of these chateaux, the chef had a cliere amie 
named Madeleine. There was to be a fete, and the lover 
of Madeleine was racking his tired brain to invent some 
new dainty for it. “7 have thought of something which 
can make you famous,” announced the young woman, who 
was a budding genius as a cook. ‘‘But, mon cher, it is 
my secret. Even to you I will not give it for nothing. I 
will sell it at a price.” 

The chef feigned indifference; but each moment counted. 
The Duke always paid in praise and gold for a successful 
new dish, especially a cake, for he was fond of sweets. 
When Madeleine boasted that her “inspiration” took the 
form of a cake, the man could resist no longer. The price 
asked was marriage — ^no less, and paid in advance ! But it 
turned out not excessive. The feather-light, shell-shaped 
cakes were the success of the feast; and when Duke 
Stanislas heard their history, he insisted that they should 
be named Madeleines — “after their mother.” 

Even in war days, “Madeleines de Commercy” is the 
first cry which greets the traveller entering town. Jim, it 


100 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


seems, had a charming habit of sending to his mother at 
home a specimen of the cake, or confiture, or bonbon, for 
which each place he visited abroad was famed. These 
things used to reach her in jars or boxes adorned with the 
coat-of-arms and photographs of the city concerned — a 
procession of surprises: and I think as she bought Made- 
leines of Commercy she moistened them with a few tears. 

I expected to find Nancy beautiful, since for so long it 
was the capital of proud Lorraine, but I hadn’t guessed 
how beautiful or individual. Now I shall always in future 
see the details of each splendid square and park by shutting 
niy eyes and calling the vision to come — as Brian does. 

We drove straight to the door of a fascinating, old- 
fashioned hotel in the most celebrated square of all, the 
Place Stanislas; but we didn’t go in. We couldn’t stolidly 
turn our backs upon the magic picture, lit by a sudden 
radiance of sunshine, for in another moment the fairy -like 
effect might fade. Yes, “fairy -like” is the word; and as 
our two cars drew up — like Dignity and Impudence — had 
the feeling that we’d arrived in the capital of fairyland to 
visit the king and queen. 

It was I who described the scene to Brian: the eighteenth- 
century perfection of the buildings, each one harmoniously 
proportioned to suit the others; the town hall, with its 
wonderful clock; the palace; the theatre, and the rest of 
the happy architectural family reared by Duke Stanislas; 
each with its roof -decor at ion of carved stone vases, and 
graceful statues miraculously missed so far by German 
bombs; the lace-like filigree of wrought iron and gold on 
flag-hung balconies or gates; the gilded Arch of Triumph 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


101 


leading into the garden of the Place Carriere — a gorgeous 
glitter of decoration which won for Nancy her aliasy ‘‘City 
of Golden Doors,” and now has to be “camouflaged” for 
enemy aeroplanes. It was I who made the list of stage 
properties, but it was Brian who filled the stage with 
actors and actresses, in their proper parts. 

He called upon the bronze statue of Stanislas to come 
down from its high pedestal, an^ appear before us in flesh, 
happy to be Duke of Lorraine, after all the dethronings 
and abdications in Poland; a most respectable-looking 
monarch despite his adventures and disguises of the past. 
We saw him in a powdered perruque, on his way to the du- 
cal palace, after some religious ceremony that had at- 
tracted crowds of loyal Catholic Lorrainers: beside him, 
his good wife of bourgeoise soul but romantic name, Cath- 
erine Opalinska, a comfortable woman, too large for the 
fashionable robe a paniers; with the pair, their daughter 
Marie, proud of the fate foretold by a fortune-teller, that 
she should be queen of France; the Royal family, and the 
aristocrats of their northern court; the smart Polish 
oflicers in uniform; the pretty, coquettish women, and 
dark-faced musicians of Hungary; the Swedish philoso- 
phers, the long-haired Italian artists; and above all, the 
beautiful Marquise de Boufflers — rival of the Queen — ^with 
her little dogs and black pages; all these “belonged” to 
the sunlit picture, where our modern figures seemed out of 
place and time. The noble square, with its vast stretch of 
gray stone pavement — worn satin-smooth — its carved 
gray fagades of palaces, picked out with gold, and its vista 
of copper beeches rose-red against a sky of pearl, had been 
designed as a sober background for the colour and fantastic 


102 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


fashion of the eighteenth century, whereas we and others 
like us but added an extra sober note. 

I noticed, as Brian sketched us his little picture of the 
past, that Dierdre O’Farrell gazed at him, as if at some 
legendary knight in whose reality she did not believe. It 
was the first time I had seen any change in the sullen face, 
but it was a change to interest rather than sympathy. She 
had the air of saying in her mind: ‘‘You look more like a 
St. George, stepped down from a stained-glass window, 
than an ordinary man of to-day. You seem to think about 
everyone else before yourseK, and to see a lot more with 
your blind eyes than we see. You pretend to be happy, too, 
as if you wanted to set everybody a good example. But 
it’s all a pose — a pose ! I shall study you till I find you out, 
a trickster like the rest of us.” 

I felt a sudden stab of dislike for the girl, for daring to 
put Brian on a level with herself — and me. I wanted to 
punish her somehow, wanted to make the little wretch pay 
for her impertinent suspicions. I pushed past her brus- 
quely to stand between her and Brian. “Let’s go into the 
hotel,” I said. “It’s more important just now to see what 
our rooms are like than to play with the ghosts of dukes.” 

As if the slighted ghosts protested, there came a loud, 
reproachful wail out of space. Everyone started, and 
stared in all directions. Then the soberly clad, modern 
inhabitants of Nancy glanced skyward as they crossed the 
square of Stanislas. Nobody hurried, yet nobody stopped. 
Men, women, and children pursued their way at the same 
leisurely pace as before, except that their chins were raised. 
I realized then that the ghostly wail was the warning cry 
of a siren: “Take covert Enemy aeroplanes sighted!” But 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


103 


there was the monotony of boredom in the voice, and in the 
air with which passers-by received the news. 

“Oh, lord, here I go again!” the weary siren sighed. 

“Third time to-day, mon Dieu /” grumbled a very old 
man to a very blase porter, who dutifully shot out of the 
hotel to rescue our luggage, if not us, from possible though 
improbable danger. We let him haul in our bags, but re- 
mained glued to the pavement, utterly absorbed and fas- 
cinated, waiting for the show to begin. 

We had not long to wait ! For an instant the pearl-pale 
zenith shone serenely void. Then, heralded by a droning 
noise as of giant bees, and a vicious spitting of shrapnel, 
high overhead sailed a wide-winged black bird, chased by 
four other birds bigger, because nearer earth. They 
soared, circling closer, closer — two mounting high, two 
flying low, and so passed westward, while the sky was 
spattered with shrapnel — long, white streaks falling slow 
and straight, like tail-feathers of a shot eagle. 

There was scant time to speak, or even draw an excited 
breath after the birds had disappeared, because they were 
back again, hovering so high that they were changed to 
insects. 

We ought to have scuttled into the hotel, but somehov/ 
we didn’t move, although people in the square seemed 
suddenly to realize the wisdom of prudence. Some van- 
ished into doorways, others walked faster — though not 
one of those haughty Lorrainers would condescend to 
run. Forgetful of ourselves, I was admiring their pride, 
when an angry voice made me jump. 

“You pretend that everything you do, good or bad, is 
for your brother’s sake, yet you let him risk his life — a 


104 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


blind man ! — out here in the street with bombs and shrap- 
nel dropping every instant ! ” 

It was Dierdre O’Farrell who spoke, and we glared into 
each other’s eyes like two Kilkenny cats — or a surprised 
Kilkenny cat and a spitfire Kilkenny kitten. 

A moment before, I had been longing to strike at her. 
Now it was she who struck at me; and it was too much, 
that it should be in defence of my own brother! The 
primitive fishwife within me rose to the surface. “Mind 
your own business!” I rudely flung at her: and slipping 
my arm under Brian’s, in a voice of curdled cream begged 
him to come with me indoors. 

The others followed, and about three seconds later a 
bomb fell in front of the hotel. It was a “dud,” and did 
not explode, but it made a hole in the pavement and sent a 
jet of splintered stone into the air. 

Perhaps the girl had saved us from death, or at least 
from disfiguring wounds, but I was in no mood to thank 
her for that. I was glad I had been a fishwife, and I 
thought Brian lacked his usual discernment in attributing 
hidden qualities to such a person as Dierdre O’Farrell. 

“Something’s bound to break, if we don’t part soon!” 
I told myself. 


CHAPTER XII 


N ancy is one of “Jim’s towns,” as Mother and 
Father Beckett say. When, with Brian’s help, 
they began mapping out their route, they decided 
to “give something worth while” to the place, and to all 
the ruined region round about, when they had learned 
what form would be best for their donation to take. 
Some friend in Paris gave them a letter to the Prefet, and 
we had not been in Nancy an hour when he and his wife 
called. 

I’d never met a real, live prefet. The word sounded 
stiff and official. When Mother Beckett tremulously 
asked me to act as interpreter, I dimly expected to meet 
two polite automata, as little human as creatures of 
flesh and blood can be. Instead, I saw a perfectly de- 
lightful pair of Parisians, with the warm, kind 
manner one thinks of as southern. They were frankly 
pleased that a millionaire’s purse promised to open for 
Nancy. Monsieur le Prefet offered himself to the Becketts 
as guide on a sightseeing expedition next day, and 
Madame, the Prefet’s wife, proposed to exhibit her two 
thousand children, old and young, refugees housed in what 
once had been barracks. “The Germans pretend to be- 
lieve they are barracks still, full of soldiers, as an excuse 
for bombs,” she said. “But you shall see! And if you 
wish — if you have time — we will take you to see also what 

m 


106 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


the Boches have done to some of our other towns — ah, 
but beautiful towns, of an importance! Luneville, 
and Gerbevillers, and more — many more. You should 
know what they are like before you go on to the Grande 
Couronne, where Nancy was saved in 1914.” 

Of course the Becketts “wished.” Of course they had 
time. “Molly, tell Mr. and Mrs. Prefet we’ve got more 
time than anything else!” said the old man eagerly. 
“Oh, and I guess we’ve got a little money, too, enough to 
spread around among those other places, as well as here. 
This is going to be something like what Jim would want at 
last!” 

When the Prefet and his wife rose to go, they invited not 
only the Becketts but Brian and me to dine at their house 
that night. Mother Beckett, on the point of accepting for 
us all, hesitated. The hesitation had to be explained: and 
the explanation was — the O’Farrells. I had hoped we 
might be spared them, but it was not to be. Our host 
and hostess, hearing of the travellers of the Red Cross, 
insisted that they must come, too. Mrs. Beckett was 
sure they would both be charmed, but as it turned out, she 
was only half right. Mr. O’Farrell was charmed. His 
sister had a headache, and intended to spend the evening 
in her room. 

Padre, if I wrote stories, I should like to write one 
with that prefet and his whole family for the heroes and 
heroines of it! 

There is a small son. There are five daughters, each 
prettier than the others, the youngest a tiny fillette, the 
eldest twenty at most; and the mother in looks an elder 
sister. WTien the war broke out they were living in 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


107 


Paris, the father in some high political post: but he was 
by ancestry a man of Lorraine, and his first thought was 
to help defend the home of his forbears. The Meurthe-et- 
Moselle, with Nancy as its centre and capital, was a 
terrible danger zone, with the sword of the enemy pointed 
at its heart, but the lover of Lorraine asked to become 
prefet in place of a man abotit to leave, and his family 
rallied round him. There at Nancy, they have been ever 
since those days, through all the bombardments by Big 
Berthas and Taubes. When houses and hotels were 
being blown to bits by naval guns, thirty-five kilometres 
away, the daily life of the family went on as if in peace. 
As a man, the Prefet longed to send his wife and children 
far away. As a servant of France he thought best to let 
them stop, to “set an example of calmness.” And if they 
had been bidden to go, they would still have stayed. 

The Prefet’s house is one of the eighteenth-century 
palaces of the Place Stanislas; and in the story I’d like to 
write, I should put a description of their drawing room, 
and the scene after dinner that night. 

Imagine a background of decorative walls, adorned with 
magnificent portraits (one of the best is Stanislas, and 
better still is Louis XVI, a proud baby in the arms of a 
handsome mother); imagine beautiful Louis XV chairs, 
tables, and sofas scattered about, with the light of prism- 
hung chandeliers glinting on old brocades and tapestries: 
flowers everywhere, in Chinese bowls and tall vases; 
against this background a group of lovely girls multiplied 
by many mirrors into a large company ; be-medalled officers 
in pale blue uniforms, handing coffee to the ladies, or taking 
from silver dishes carried by children the delicious maca- 


108 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


roons which are to Nant^y what Madeleines are to Com- 
mercy. Imagine long windows opening into a garden: 
rosy lamplight streaming out, silver moonlight streaming 
in; music; the wonderful voice of a man (Julian O’Farrell) 
singing the “Marseillaise,” the “Star-Spangled Banner,” 
and “Tipperary.” Then into the midst of this breaking 
the tiresome whine of the siren. 

“What.? A fourth time to-day.?” cries somebody 
“These creatures will wear out their welcome if they’re 
not careful!” 

A laugh follows, to drown the bark of shrapnel, and a 
general shrugging of the shoulders. But suddenly comes a 
cry that la 'petite — the baby daughter of the house, sitting 
up in our honour — has run into the garden. 

The elder girls are not afraid for themselves, the great 
bombardments have given them a quiet contempt of 
mere Taubes. But for the little sister ! — that is different. 
Instantly it seems that all the bombs Germany has ever 
made may be falling like iron rain on that curly head out 
there among the autumn lilies. Everybody rushes to 
the rescue: and there is the child, sweet as a cherub and 
cool as a cucumber, in the din. She stands on the lawn, 
chin in air, baby thumb on baby nose for the Taube caught 
in a silver web of searchlights. 

^'Sale oiseau her defiant cry shrills up. “Just like 
you, to come on my grown-up evening! But you shan’t 
spoil it. No, sister, I don’t want to go in. I came out to 
say good-night to the chickens and rabbits, and tell them 
not to be afraid.” 

Behind the lilies and late roses and laurels is quite a 
menagerie of domestic animals, housed among growing 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


109 


potatoes, beans, and tomatoes. C'est la guerre! But rab- 
bits and chickens are robbed of their consolation; the baby 
is bundled into the house; and, once she is safe — safe as 
any one can be safe in bombarded Nancy! — nobody thinks 
about the air raid. Que voulez-vous ? If one thought about 
these ' kings, smiles a blonde girl in white, they might really 
get upon one’s nerves, and that would never do ! 

“It is this moonlight,’’ she explains. “They will be 
back again once or twice to-night, perhaps. But the 
streets will be as full as ever of poilus en permimon, walking 
with their sweethearts, in spite of the hateful things ! ” 

One makes one’s adieux early in war times; but the 
; moonlight was so wonderful on that Taube-ridden night 
that Brian said he felt it like a cool silver shower on his 
eyelids. “I believe I’m developing night-eyes!” he 
laughed to me, as we walked ahead of the Becketts and 
1 Julian O’Farrell, on our way across the gleaming square 
i to our hotel. “Surely there won’t be another raid for an 
hour or two.? Let’s take a walk. Let’s go into the old 
town, and try to see some ghosts.” 

“Yes, let’s ! ” I echoed. 

I said good-night sw^eetly to the Becketts and stiffly 
to O’Farrell. Brian was equally cordial to all three, and I 
feared that O’Farrell might be encouraged to offer his com- 
i pany. But his self-assurance stopped short of that. He 
went meekly into the darkened hotel with the old couple, 
and I turned away triumphant, with my arm in Brian’s. 

The clock of the Town Hall struck ten, chimed, waited 
for the church clock to approve and confirm, then repeated 
all that it had said and sung a minute before. 


110 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


We were going to look for ghosts of kings and dukes and 
queens; and like ghosts ourselves, we stepped from moon- 
lit shores into pools of shadow, and back to moonlit shores 
again; past the golden Arch of Triumph, which Stanislas 
built in honour of his daughter’s marriage with Louis XV ; 
through the Carriere, where the tops of tall copper-beeches 
caught the light with dull red gleams, like the glow of a 
carbuncle; past the sleeping palace of Stanislas, into the 
old “nursery garden” of the Pepiniere, to the sombre 
Porte de la Craffe whose two huge, pointed towers and 
great wall guard the old town of Duke Rene II. 

There we stopped, because of all places this dark corner 
was the place for Nancy’s noblest ghost to walk, Rene the 
Romantic, friend of Americo Vespucius when Americo 
needed friends; Rene the painter, whose pictures still 
adorn old churches of Provence, where he was once a 
captive: Rene, whose memory never dies in Nancy, though 
his body died 500 years ago. 

What if he should rise from his tomb in the church of the 
Cordeliers, or come down off his little bronze horse in the 
Place St. Epvre as ghosts may by moonlight, to walk with 
his fair wife Isabella through the huddled streets of the old 
town, gazing at the wreckage made by the greatest war of 
history? What would he think of civilization, he who 
held his dukedom against the star warrior of the century, 
Charles the Bold? War was lawless enough in his day. 
When avenging a chancellor’s murder, the Nancians 
hanged 100 Burgundian officers on a church tower for the 
besiegers outside the city wall to see. But the “noble 
Gauls” whom Julius Cfesar called “knights of chivalry,” 
would have drawn the line then at showering bombs from 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 111 

the sky on women and children. We fancied, Brian and I, 
that after a walk round Nancy Bene and Isabella would 
retire, sadder and wiser ghosts, content to have finished 
their lives in gentler times than ours. Back into the 
shadows might they fade, to sleep again, and take up 
their old dream where the noise of twentieth-century 
shrapnel had snapped its thread. Their best dream must 
be, we thought, of their battle of Nancy: Charles the 
Bold on his black war-horse, surrounded by Burgundian 
barons in armour, shouting, and waving their banners 
with standards of ivory and gold; Charles of the dark 
locks, and brilliant eyes which all men feared and some 
women loved; Charles laughing with joy in the chance of 
open battle at last, utterly confident of its end, because 
the young duke — once his prisoner — had reinforced a 
small army with mercenaries, Swiss and Alsatians. 
At most Rene had 15,000 soldiers, and Charles believed 
his equal band of Burgundians worth ten times the paid 
northerners, as man to man. 

From the church tower where Charles’s men had hung — • 
where St. Epvre stands now — ^Rene could see the enemy 
troops assembling, headed by the Duke of Burgundy, in 
his glittering helmet adorned with its device of an open- 
jawed lion. He could even seen the gorgeous tent whose 
tapestried magnificence spies had reported (a magnificence 
owned by Nancy’s museum in our day!), and there seemed 
to his eyes no end to the defile of spears, of strange engines 
for scaling walls, and glittering battle-axes. One last 
prayer, a blessing by the pale priest, and young Rene’s 
own turn to lead had come — a slight adversary for great 
Charles, but with a heart as bold! The trumpet blast of 


112 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


La Riviere, sounding the charge of Lorraine, went to 
his head like wine. He laughed when Herter’s mountain 
men began to sing “Le taureau d’Uri” and “La vache 
d’Unterwald, ” to remind the proud Burgundian of his 
defeats at Granson and Morat. Then came the crash of 
armour against armour, blade against blade, and the day 
ended for Nancy according to Rene’s prayers. The south- 
erners fled and died; and two days later, Rene was gazing 
down at the drowned body of Charles the Bold, dragged 
out of a pond. Yes, a good dream for ghosts of the 
chivalrous age to retire into, and shut the door! But for 
us, in our throbbing flesh and blood, this present was worth 
suffering in for the glory of the future. 

There were other ghosts to meet in Nancy’s old town of 
narrow streets where moonlight trickled in a narrow rill. 
Old, old ghosts, far older than the town as we saw it: 
Odebric of the eleventh century, who owned the strongest 
castle in France and the most beautiful wife, and fought 
the bishops of Metz and Treves together, because they 
did not approve of the lady; Henri VI of England riding 
through the walled city with his bride. Marguerite, by 
his side: ghostly funeral processions of dead dukes, whose 
strange. Oriental obsequies were famed throughout the 
world; younger and more splendid ghosts: Louis XIII and 
Richelieu entering in triumph when France had fought and 
won Lorraine, only to give it back by bargaining later; 
ghosts of stout German generals who, in 1871, had “bled 
the town white”; but greater than all ghosts, the noble 
reality of Foch and Castlenau, who saved Nancy in 1914, 
on the heights of La Grande Couronne. 

As we walked back to the new town, dazed a little, by our 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


113 


deep plunge into the centuries, I heard my name called 
from across the street. “Miss O’Malley — wait, please! 
It’s Julian O’Farrell. Have you seen my sister. ” 

Brian and I stopped short, and O’Farrell joined us, 
panting and out of breath. “She’s not with you?” he 
exclaimed. “I hoped she would be. I’ve been searching 
everywhere — she wasn’t in the hotel when I got home, and 
it’s close to midnight. ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


I FELT unsympathetic, and wouldn’t have cared if 
Miss Dierdre O’Farrell had flown off on a broomstick, 
or been kidnapped by a German aviator. My heart, 
however, was sure that nothing had happened and I sus- 
pected that her brother had trumped up an excuse to join 
us. It vexed me that Brian should show concern. If only 
he knew how the girl had looked at him a few hours ago ! 

“Couldn’t they tell you in the hotel at what time she 
went out.^ ” he enquired. 

But no! According to O’Farrell, his sister had not been 
seen. He had found her door unlocked, the room empty, 
and her hat and coat missing. “ She told me she was going 
to bed,” he added. “ But the bed hasn’t been disturbed.” 

“Nor need you be, I think,” said I. “Perhaps your 
sister wants to frighten you. Children love that sort of 
thing. It draws attention to themselves. And some- 
times they don’t outgrow the fancy.” 

“Especially Suffragettes and Sinn Feiners,” O’ Farrell 
played up to me, unoffended. “Still, as a brother of one, 
I’m bound to search, if it takes all night. A sister’s a 
sister. And mine is quite a valuable asset.” He tossed 
me this hint with a Puck-like air of a private under- 
standing established between us. Yes, “Puck-like” 
describes him: a Puck at the same time merry and 
malicious, never to be counted upon ! 

114 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


115 


“I feel that Miss O’Farrell went out to take a walk 
because she was restless, and perhaps not very happy,” 
Brian reproached us both. ‘‘Something may have hap- 
pened — remember we’re in the war zone.” 

“No one in Nancy’s likely to forget that!” said I, dully 
resenting his defence of the enemy. “Brushing bombs out 
of their back hair every ten minutes or so! And listen — 
don’t you hear big guns booming now, along the front 
The German lines are only sixteen kilometres from here.” 

Brian didn’t answer. His brain was pursuing Dierdre 
O’Farrell, groping after her through the night. “If she 
went out before that air raid, while we were at the Prefet’s,” 
he suggested, “she may have had to take refuge somewhere 

— she may have been hurt ” 

“By Jove!” Puck broke in. “It scares me when you 
say that. You’re a — a sort — of prophet, you know! I 

must find out what hospitals there are ” 

“We’ll go with you to the hotel,” Brian promised. 
“They’ll know there about the hospitals. And if the 
Prefet’s still up, he’ll phone for us officially, I’m sure.” 

“It’s you who are the practical one, after all!” cried 
O’Farrell. And I guessed from a sudden uprush of Irish 
accent that his anxiety had grown sincere. 

We hurried home; Brian seeming almost to guide us, for 
without his instinct for the right way we would twice have 
taken a wrong turning. As we came into the Place Stanis- 
las, still a pale oasis of moonlight, I saw standing in front 
of the hotel two figures, black as if cut out of velvet. One, 
that of a man, was singularly tall and thin, as a Mephis- 
topheles of the stage. The other was that of a woman in a 
long cloak, small and slight as a child of fourteen. Dierdre 


116 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


O’Farrell, of course! It could be no one else. But v/ho 
was \he man? A dim impression that the figure was 
vaguely familiar, or had been familiar long ago, teased my 
brain. But surely I could never have seen it before. 

“Hurrah! There she is!” cried O’Farrell, “alive and 
on her pins!” 

At the sound of his voice, the velvet silhouettes stirred. 
They had turned to look at us, and a glint of moonlight 
made the two faces white and blank as masks. O’Farrell 
waved his hand, and I was obliged to quicken my steps to 
keep pace with Brian: “I suppose she got lost — serve her 
right! — and the beanpole has escorted her home,” grum- 
bled Puck; but as he spoke, the beanpole in question hur- 
riedly made a gesture of salute, and stalked away with 
enormous strides. In an instant he was engulfed by a 
shadow-wave and his companion was left to meet us alone. 
I thought it would be like her to whisk into the hotel and 
vanish before we could arrive, but she did not. She stood 
still, with a fierce little air of defiance; and as we came near 
I saw that under the thrown-back cloak her left arm was in 
a white sling. 

Her brother saw it also. “Hullo, what have you been 
up to?” he wanted to know. “You’ve given us the scare 
of our lives!” 

“Thank you,” the girl said. “Please speak for your- 
self!” 

“He may speak for us, too,” Brian assured her. “We 
thought of the air raid. And even now, I don’t feel as if 
we’d been wrong. Your voice sounds as if you were in 
pain. You’ve been hurt ! ” 

“It’s nothing at all,” she answered shortly, but her tone 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


117 


softened slightly for Brian. Even she had her human side, 
it seemed. ‘‘A window splintered near where I was, and I 
got a few bits of glass in my arm. They’re out now — every 
one. A doctor came, and looked after me. You see, 
Jule!” and she nodded her head at the sling. ‘‘Now I’m 
going in to bed. Good -night!” 

“Wait, and let my sister help you,” Brian proposed. 
“She’s a splendid nurse. I know she’ll be delighted.” 

“Sweet of her!” sneered the girl. “But Fm a trained 
nurse, too, and I can take care of myself. It’s only my left 
arm that’s hurt, and a scratch at that. I don’t need any 
help from any one.” 

“Was that man we saw the doctor who put you in your 
sling?” asked “Jule,” in the blunt way brothers have of 
catching up their sisters. 

“Yes, he was,” she grudged. 

“Why did he run away? Didn’t he want to be 
thanked?” 

“He did not. Besides ” 

“Besides — ^what?” 

“He particularly didn’t wish to meet — one of our party. 
Now, I shan’t say a word more about him. So you needn’t 
ask questions. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.” 

With this ultimatum, she bolted into the hotel, leaving 
the three of us speechless for a few seconds. I suppose 
each was wondering, “Am I the one the doctor didn’t want 
to meet?” Then I remembered my impression of having 
known that tall, thin figure long ago, and I was seized with 
certainty that the mysterious person had fled from me. 
At all events, I was sure Miss O’Farrell wished me to think 
so by way of being as aggravating as she possibly could. 


118 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“Well, I’m blessed /” Puck exploded. 

“Are you?” I doubted. And I couldn’t resist adding, 
“I thought your sister always did what you wanted? ” 

“In the end she does,” he upheld his point. “But — 
just lately — she’s bewitched! Some saint is needed to 
remove the ban.” 

I thought the saint was only too near her hand ! Whether 
that hand would scratch or strike I couldn’t guess; but one 
gesture was as dangerous as the other. 

What with thinking of my own horridness and other 
people’s, wondering about the shadow-man, and being 
roused by the usual early morning air raid, bed didn’t 
mother me with its wonted calming influence. Excite- 
ment was a tonic for the next day, however; and a bath and 
coffee braced me for an expedition with the Prefet’s wife 
and daughters, and the Becketts. They took us over the 
two huge casernes, turned into homes of refuge for two thou- 
sand people from the invaded towns and villages of Lor- 
raine : old couples, young women (of course the young men 
are fighting), and children. We saw the skilled embroid- 
erers embroidering, and the unskilled making sandbags for 
the trenches; we saw the schools; and the big girls at work 
upon trousseaux for their future, or happily cooking in the 
kitchens. We saw the gardens where the refugees tended 
their own growing fruit and vegetables. We saw the 
church — once a gymnasium — and an immense cinema 
theatre, decorated by the ladies of Nancy, with the Prefet’s 
wife and daughters at their head. On the way home we 
dropped into the biggest of Nancy’s beautiful shops, to 
behold the work of last night’s bombs. The whole sky- 
light-roof had been smashed at dawn; but the glass had 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


119 


been swept away, and pretty girls were selling pretty hats 
and frocks as if nothing had happened — except that the 
wind of heaven was blowing their hair across their smiling 
eyes. 

After luncheon at which Dierdre O’Farrell didn’t 
appear, the Prefet took us to the streets which had suffered 
most from the big gun bombardment — ^fine old houses 
destroyed with a completeness of which the wickedest 
aeroplane bombs are incapable. “Any minute they may 
begin again,” the Prefet said. “But sufficient for the 
day! We suffered so much in a few horns three years ago, 
that nothing which has happened to us since has counted. 
Nancy was saved for us, to have and hold. Wounded she 
might be, and we also. But she was saved. We could 
bear the rest.” 

We made him tell us about those “few hours” of suffer- 
ing: and this was the story. It was on the 7th of Septem- 
ber, 1914, when the fate of Nancy hung in the balance. An 
immense horde of Germans came pouring along the Seille, 
crossing the river by four bridges: Chambley, Moncel, 
Brin, and Bioncourt. Everyone knew that the order was 
to take Nancy at any price, and open the town for the 
Kaiser to march in, triumphant, as did Louis XIII of 
France centuries ago. William was said to be waiting 
with 10,000 men of the Prussian Guard, in the wood of 
Morel, ready for his moment. Furiously the Germans 
worked to place their huge cannon on the hills of Don- 
court, Bourthecourt, and Rozebois. Villages burned like 
card houses. Church bells tolled as their towers rocked 
and fell. Forests blazed, and a rain of bombs poured over 
the country from clouds of flame and smoke. Amance 


1^0 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


was lost, and with it hope also; for beyond, the road lay 
open for a rush on Nancy, seemingly past the power of 
man to defend. Still, man did defend! If the French 
could hold out against ten times their number for a few 
hours, there was one chance in a thousand that reinforce- 
ments might arrive. After Velaine fell next day, and the 
defile between the two mountain-hills of Amance swarmed 
with yelling Uhlans, the French still held. They did not 
hope, but they fought. How they fought! And at the 
breaking point, as if by miracle, appeared the reinforcing 
tirailleurs. 

“This,” said the Prefet, “was only one episode in the 
greatest battle ever fought for Nancy, but it was the 
episode in which the town was saved. 

“You know,” he went on, “that Lorrainers have been 
ardent Catholics for centuries. In the Church of Bon-Se- 
cours there’s a virgin which the people credit with miracu- 
lous power. Many soldiers in the worst of the fighting 
were sure of victory, because the virgin had promised that 
never should Nancy be taken again by any enemy what- 
ever.” 

It was late when we came back to the hotel, and while I 
was translating the Becketts’ gratitude into French for 
the Prefet, the O’Farrells arrived from another direction. 
The brother looked pleased to see us; the sister looked 
distressed. I fancied that she had been forced or persuaded 
to point out the scene of last night’s adventure, and was 
returning chastened from the visit. To introduce her to 
the Prefet was like introducing a dog as it strains at the 
leash, but Puck performed the rite, and explained her 
sling. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


m 

“Hurt in the air raid?” the Prefet echoed. “I hope^ 
Mademoiselle, that you went to a good doctor. That 
he ” 

“The doctor came to her on the spot,” replied Puck, in 
his perfect French. “It seems you have doctors at Nancy 
who walk the streets, when there’s a raid, wandering about 
to pick up jobs, and refusing payment.” ^ 

The Prefet laughed. “Can it be,” he exclaimed, “that 
Mademoiselle has been treated by the Wandering Jew? 
Oh, not the original character, but an extraordinary fellow 
who has earned that name in our neighbourhood since the 



war. 


“Was that what he called himself?” O’FarreHJ turned! 
to Dierdre. I guessed that Puck’s public revelations were 
vengeance upon her for unanswered questions. 

“He called himself nothing at all,” the girl replied. 

“Ah,” said the Prefet, “then he was the Wandering 
Jew! Let me see — I think you are planning to go to 
Gerbeviller and Luneville and Vitrimont to-morrow. 
Most likely you’ll meet him at one of those places. And 
when you hear his story, you’ll understand why he haunts 
the neighbourhood like a beneficent spirit.” 

“But must we wait to hear the story? Please tell us 
now,” I pleaded. “I’m so curious!” 

This was true. I burned with curiosity. Also, fatty 
degeneration of the heart prompted me to annoy Dierdre 
O’Farrell. To spite me, she had refused to talk of the 
doctor. I was determined to hear all about him to spite 
her. You see to what a low level I have fallen, dear 
Padre! 

The Prefet said that if we would go home with him and 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


122 

have tea in the garden (German aeroplanes permitting) he 
would tell us the tale of the Wandering Jew. We all 
accepted, save Dierdre, who began to stammer an excuse; 
but a look from her brother nipped it in the bud. He 
certainly has an influence over the girl, against which she 
struggles only at her strongest. To-day she looked pale 
and weak, and he could do what he liked with her. 

He liked to make her take tea at the Prefet’s, doubtless 
because he’d have felt bound to escort the invalid to her 
room, had she insisted on going there! 

The story of the Wandering Jew would be a strange one, 
anywhere and zinyhow. But it’s more than strange to me, 
because it is linked with my past life. Still, I won’t 
tell it from my point of view. I’ll begin with the Prefet’s 
version. 

The “Wandering Jew” really is a Jew, of the best and 
most intellectual type. His name is Paul Herter. His 
father was a man of Metz, who had brought to German 
Lorraine a wife from Luneville. Paul is thirty-five now, so 
you see he wasn’t born when the Metz part of Lorraine 
became German. His parents — French at heart — taught 
him secretly to love France, and hate German domination. 
As he grew up, Paul’s ambition was to be a great surgeon. 
He wished to study, not in Germany, but in Paris and 
London. These hopes, however, were of the “stuff that 
dreams are made of,” for when the father died, the boy had 
to work at anything he could get for a bare livelihood. It 
wasn’t till he was over twenty-five that he’d scraped 
together money for the first step toward his career. He 
went to Paris: studied and starved; then to London. It 
was there I met him, but that bit of the story fits in later. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND m 

He was thought well of at “Bart’s,” and everybody who 
knew him was surprised when suddenly he married one of 
the younger nurses, an English girl, and vanished with her 
from London. Presently the pair appeared in Metz, at 
the mother’s house. Herter seemed sad and discouraged, 
uncertain of his future, and just at this time, through 
German Lorraine ran rumours of war “to begin when the 
harvests should be over.” Paul and his mother took coun- 
sel. Both were French at heart. They determined to 
leave all they had in the world at Metz, rather than Paul 
should be called up to serve Prussia. The three contrived 
to cross the frontier. Paul offered himself to the Foreign 
Legion; his wife volunteered to nurse in a military hospi- 
tal at Nancy; and Madame Herter, mere took refuge in 
her girlhood’s home at Luneville, where her old father 
still lived. 

Then came the rush of the Huns across the frontier. 
Paul’s wife was killed by a Zeppelin bomb which wrecked 
her hospital. At Luneville the mother and grandfather 
perished in their own house, burned to the ground by order 
of the Bavarian colonel. Von Fosbender. 

Paul Herter had not been in love with his wife. There 
was a mystery about the marriage, but her fate filled him 
with rage and horror. His mother he had adored, and 
the news of her martyrdom came near to driving him in- 
sane. In the madness of grief he vowed vengeance against 
all Bavarians who might fall into his hands. 

He was fighting then in the Legion; but shortly after 
be was gravely wounded. His left foot had to be ampu- 
tated; and from serving France as a soldier, he began to 
serve as a surgeon. He developed astonishing skill in 


124 > 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


throat and chest operations, succeeding in some which 
older and more experienced men refused to attempt. 
Months passed, and into his busy life had never come the 
wished-for chance of vengeance; but all who knew him 
knew that Herter’s hatred of Bavarians was an obsession. 
He was not one who would forget; and when a lot of 
seriously wounded Bavarians came into the field-hospital 
where he was at work, the two young doctors under him 
looked one another in the eyes. Even the stretcher- 
bearers had heard of Herter’s vow, but there was nothing 
to do save to bring in the stream of wounded, and trust the 
calm instinct of the surgeon to control the hot blood of 
the man. Still, the air was electric with suspense, and 
heavy with dread of some vague tragedy: disgrace for the 
hospital, ruin for Herter. 

But the Jewish surgeon (he wasn’t called “the Wander- i 
ing Jew” in those days) caught the telepathic message of ^ 
fear, and laughed grimly at what men were thinking of him. : 
“You need not be afraid,” he said to his assistants. | 
“These canaille are sacred for me. They do not count as 
Bavarians.” 

Nevertheless, the young doctors would have tended the 
wounded prisoners themselves, leaving Herter to care for 
his countrymen alone. But one of the Bavarians was be- 
yond their skill: a young lieutenant. His wound was pre- 
cisely “Herter’s specialty” — a bullet lodged in the heart, 
if he was to be saved, Herter alone could save him. Would 
Herter operate? He had only to say the case was hope- j 
less, and refuse to waste upon it time needed for others. 

Perhaps he knew what suspicion would dog him through 
life if he gave this verdict. At all events, he chose t# 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


125 


operate. ‘‘Bring me the brute,” he growled: and re- 
luctantly the brute was brought — a very youtliful brute, 
with a face of such angelic charm that even Herter was 
struck by it. He had steeled himself to get through a hate- 
ful job; but for him — like most men of his race — beauty 
held a strong appeal. Suddenly he wished to save the boy 
with the fair curly hair and arched dark brows. Here 
was a German — a Bavarian — who could have no vileness 
in him yet! 

The surgeon got ready his instruments for the operation, 
which must be done quickly, if at all. The boy was un- 
conscious, but every moment or two he broke out in con- 
vulsive delirium, giving answers to questions like a man 
talking in sleep. “Hilda! Hilda!” he cried again and 
again. “ My Hilda, do not ask me that. Thou wouldst not 
love me if I told thee! Thou wouldst hate me forever!” 

“What have you done that Hilda should hate you?” 
Paul enquired, as he waited for the anaesthetic. Ether 
was running short. The wounded had to take their turn 
that day. 

“Luneville! Luneville!” shrieked the Bavarian. 

Everyone heard the cry. The two young doctors, know- 
ing Herter’s history, turned sick. This was worse than 
their worst fears ! But they could do nothing. To speak, 
to try to act, would be to insult the surgeon. They saw 
that he was ghastly pale. “What happened at Lune- 
ville?” he went on. 

“Here is the ether,” a voice spoke in haste. But Paul 
heard only the Bavarian. 

“ Oh, God, the old woman ! Her face at the window. I 
can’t forget. Hilda — she wouldn’t come out. It wasn’t 


126 


EVERYjVIAN’S land 


my faultc The ColoneFs orders. An old man, too. We 
saw them in the fire. We had to pass on. Hilda, forgive ! ” 

“Was it a corner house of the Rue Princesse Marie.?” 
asked Herter. 

“Yes — ^yes, a corner house,” groaned the boy of the 
beautiful face. 

Herter gave a sign to the man who had brought the ether. 
A moment more, and the ravings of the Bavarian were 
silenced. The operation began. 

The others had their hands full of their own work, yet 
with a kind of agonized clairvoyance they were conscious 
of all that Herter did. The same thought was in the minds 
of both young doctors. They exchanged impressions after- 
ward. “He’ll cut the boy’s heart out and tread it imder- 
foot!” 

But never had the Jewish surgeon from Metz performed 
a major operation with more coolness or more perfect skill. 
Had he chosen to let his wrist tremble at the critical second, 
revenge would easily have been his. But awaiting the 
instant between one beat of the heart and another, he 
seized the shred of shrapnel lodged there, and closed up the 
throbbing breast. The boy would live. He had not only 
spared, but saved, the life of one who was perhaps his 
mother’s murderer. 

During the whole day he worked on untiringly and — it 
seemed — unmoved. Then, at the end of the last operation, 
he dropped as if he had been shot through the brain. 

This was the beginning of a long, peculiar illness which 
no doctor who attended him could satisfactorily diagnose. 
He was constantly delirious, repeating the words of the 
Bavarian: “Hilda — ^Hilda! — the corner house — ^Rue Prin- 


EVERYMAN LAND 


127 


cesse Marie — Luneville!” and it was feared that, if he 
recovered, he would be insane. After many weeks, how- 
ever, he came slowly back to himself — a changed self, but a 
sane self. Always odd in his appearance — very tall and 
dark and thin — he had wasted to a walking skeleton, and 
his black hair had turned snow-white. He had lost his 
self-confidence, and dreaded to take up work again lest he 
should fail in some delicate operation. Long leave was 
granted, and he was advised by doctors who were his 
friends to go south, to sunshine and peace. But Herter 
insisted that the one hope for ultimate cure was to stay in 
Lorraine. He took up his quarters in what was left of a 
house near the ruin of his mother's old home, in Luneville, 
but he was never there for long at a time. He was pro- 
vided with a pass to go and come as he liked, being greatly 
respected and pitied at headquarters; and wherever there 
was an air raid, there speedily and mysteriously appeared 
Paul Herter among the victims. 

His artificial foot did not prevent his riding a motor- 
bicycle, and on this he arrived, no matter at what hour of 
night or day, at any town within fifty miles of Luneville, 
when enemy airmen had been at work. He gave his 
services unpaid to poor and rich alike; and owing to the 
dearth of doctors not mobilized, the towns concerned 
welcomed him thankfully. All the surgeon’s serene con- 
fidence in himself returned in these emergencies, and he 
was doing invaluable work. People were grateful, but the 
man’s ways and looks were so strange, his restlessness so 
tragic, that they dubbed him “le Juif Errant.” 

Now, Padre, I have come to the right place to bring in 
my part of this story. 


128 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


While I was training at “Bart’s,” I met a doctor named 
Paul Herter. Some of the girls used to call him the “Ger- 
man Jew” but we all knew that his Germanness was 
only an accident of fate, through a war before he was born, 
and that he was passionately French at heart. He was 
clever — a genius — but moody and queer, and striking to 
look at. He would have been ugly but for a pair of beauti- 
ful brown eyes, wistful sometimes as a dog’s. One of our 
nurses was in love with him, but he used to keep out of her 
way when he could. He was said not to care for women, 
and I was a little flattered that a man so well thought of 
“at the top” should take notice of me. When I look back 
on myself, I seem to have been very young then ! 

Dr. Herter used to meet me, as if by accident, when I 
was off duty, and we went for long walks, talking French 
together; I enjoyed that! Besides, there was nothing 
the man didn’t know. He was a kind of encyclopaedia 
of all the great musicians and artists of the world since 
the Middle Ages; and was so much older than I, that I 
didn’t think about his falling in love. I knew I was 
pretty, and that beauty of all sorts was a cult with him. 
I supposed that he liked looking at me — and that his 
fancy would end there. But it didn’t. There came a 
dreadful day when he accused me of encouraging him 
purposely, of leading him on to believe that I cared. 
This was a real shock. I was sorry — sorry! But he 
said such horrid things that I was hurt and angry, too. I 
said horrid things in my turn. This scene happened in 
the street. I asked him to leave me, and he did at once, 
without looking back. I can see him now, striding off in 
the twilight! No wonder the tall black silhouette in the 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


129 

Place Stanislas looked familiar. But the man is thinner 
now, and walks with a slight limp. 

The next thing I heard of him after our break was that 
he’d married Nurse Norman (the one who was in love 
with him) and that they’d left England. Whether he’d 
married the girl in a rage against me, or because he was 
sorry for her (she’d just then fallen into deep disgrace, 
through giving a patient the wrong medicine), I didn’t 
know. I can’t say I didn’t care, for I often thought of 
the man and wondered what had become of him, though 
I don’t remember ever writing about him to you. He 
was but indirectly concerned with my life, and maybe it 
was in the back of my mind that I might get a scolding 
from you if I told you the tale. 

The moment the name of “Paul Herter” was men- 
tioned in that pleasant garden at Nancy, the whole episode 
of those old days at “Bart’s” came back, and I guessed 
why the tall figure had darted away from Dierdre O’Farrell 
as we came in sight. He must have offered to see the girl 
safely home, after dressing her wound (probably at 
some chemist’s), and she had told him about her fellow- 
travellers. Naturally my name sent him flying like a 
shot from a seventy-five! But I can’t help hoping we 
may meet by accident. There’s a halo round the man’s 
head for me since I’ve heard that tragic story. Before, 
he was only a queer genius. Now, he’s a hero. Will he 
turn away, I wonder, if I walk up to him and hold out my 
hand.^ 

I am longing, for a double reason, to see Vitrimont and 
Gerbeviller and Luneville, since I’ve learned that at one 
of those places Paul Herter may appear. 


CHAPTER XIV 


W E WERE three automobiles strong when we 
went out of Nancy, along what they call the 
“Luneville road.” That was yesterday, as I 
write, and already it seems long ago ! The third and big- 
gest car belonged to the Prefet; gray and military looking, 
driven by a soldier in uniform; and this time Dierdre 
O’Farrell was with us. I was wondering if she went 
“under orders,” or if she wished to see the sights we were 
to see — among them, perhaps, her elusive doctor ! 

We turned south, leaving town, and presently passed — 
at Dombasle — astonishingly huge salt-works, with rubble- 
heaps tall as minor pyramids. On each apex stood a thing 
like the form of a giant black woman in a waggling gas- 
mask' and a helmet. I could have found out what these 
weird engines were, no doubt, but I preferred to remember 
them as mysterious monsters. 

At a great, strange church of St. Nicolas, in the old 
town of St. Nicolas-du-Port, we stopped, because the 
Prefet’s daughters had told us of a magic stone in the 
pavement which gives good fortune to those who set foot 
on it. Only when several of us were huddled together, 
with a foot each on the sacred spot, were we told that it 
meant marriage before the new year. If the spell works, 
Dierdre O’Farrell, Brian, and I will all be married in less 
than four months. But St. Nicolas is a false prophet 
]30 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


131 


where we are concerned. Brian and I will never marry. 
Even if poor Brian should fall head over ears in love, he 
wouldn’t ask a girl to share his broken life: he has told me 
this. As for me, I can never love any man after Jim 
Beckett. The least penance I owe is to be faithful for- 
ever to his memory and my own falsehood ! 

St. Nicolas is the patron saint of the neighbourhood, so 
it’s right that from his little town and his big church all the 
country round should open out to the eye, as if to do him 
homage. 

From the hill of Leomont we could see to the south the 
far-off, famous Forest of Parroy; away to the north, the 
blue heights of La Grande Couronne, where the fate of 
Nancy was decided in 1914; to the west, a purple haze like 
a mourning wreath of violets hung over the valley of the 
Meurthe, and the tragic little tributary river Mortagne; 
beyond, we could picture with our mind’s eyes the Moselle 
and the Meuse. 

But Leomont was not a place where one could stand 
coldly thinking of horizons. It drew all thoughts to itself, 
and to the drama played out upon its miniature mountain. 
There was fought one of the fiercest and most heroic single 
battles of the war. 

We had to desert the cars, and walk up a rough track to 
the ruined farmhouse which crowned the hill; a noble, 
fortified farmhouse that must have had the dignity of a 
chateau before the great fight which shattered its ancient 
walls. Now it has the dignity of a mausoleum. Long 
ago, in Roman days when Diana, Goddess of the Moon, was 
patron of Luneville and the country round, a temple of 
stone and marble in her honour and a soaring fountain 


132 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


crowned the high summit of Leomont, for all the world 
to see. Her influence is said to reign over the whole 
of Lorraine, from that day to this, St. Nicholas being her 
sole rival: and a prophecy has come down through the 
centuries that no evil may befall Diana’s citadels, save in 
the “dark o’ the moon,” when the protectress is absent. 
Luneville was overrun in the “dark o’ the moon”; and 
it was then also that the battle of Leomont was fought, 
ending in the vast cellars, where no man was left alive. 

In these days of ours, it’s a wonderful and romantic 
mountain, sacred as a monument forever, to the glory of 
the French soldiers who did not die in vain. The scarred 
face of the ruined house — its stones pitted by shrapnel as if 
by smallpox — ^gazes over Lorraine as the Sphinx gazes 
over the desert : calm, majestic, sad, yet triumphant. And 
under the shattered walls, among fallen buttresses and 
blackened stumps of oaks, are the graves of Leomont ’s 
heroes; graves everywhere, over the hillside; graves in 
the open; graves in sheltered corners where wild flowers 
have begun to grow; their tricolour cockades and wooden 
crosses mirrored in the blue of water-filled shell-holes; 
graves in the historic cellars, covered with a pall of dark- 
ness; graves along the slope of the hill, where old trenches 
have left ruts in the rank grass. 

An unseen choir of bird-voices was singing the sweetest 
requiem ever sung for the dead; yet Leomont in its ma- 
jestic loneliness saddened us, even the irrepressible Puck. 
We were sad and rather silent all the way to Vitrimont; 
and Vitrimont, at first glance, was a sight to make us sad- 
der than any we had seen. There had been a Vitrimont, 
a happy little place, built of gray and rose-red stones; 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


133 


now, of those stones hardly one lies upon another, except 
in rubble heaps. And yet, Vitrimont isn’t sad as others 
of the ruined towns are sad. It even cheered us, after 
Leomont, because a star of hope shines over the field of 
desolation — a star that has come out of the west. Some 
wonderful women of San Francisco decided to ‘‘adopt” 
Vitrimont, as one of the little places of France which had 
suffered most in the war. Two of them. Miss Polk and Miss 
Crocker — girls rather than women — ^gave themselves as 
well as their money to the work. In what remains of Vitri- 
mont — what they are making of Vitrimont — they live like 
two fresh roses that have taken root in a pile of ashes. 
With a few books, a few bowls of flowers, pictures, and bits 
of bright chintz they have given charm to their poor rooms 
in the half -ruined house of a peasant. This has been their 
home for many months, from the time when they were the 
only creatures who shared Vitrimont with its ghosts : but 
now other homes are growing under their eyes and through 
their charity; thanks to them, the people of the destroyed 
village are trooping back, happy and hopeful. The church 
has been repaired (that was done first, “because it is God’s 
house”) with warm-coloured pink walls and neat decora- 
tion; and plans for the restoring of the whole village are 
being carried out, while the waiting inhabitants camp in a 
village of toy-like bungalows given by the French Govern- 
ment. I never saw such looks of worshipping love cast 
upon human beings as those of the people of Vitrimont for 
these two American girls. I’m sure they believe that Miss 
Crocker and Miss Polk are saints incarnated for their sakes 
by ''la Sainte Vierge.*' One old man said as much! 

He was so old that it seemed as if he could never have 


134 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


been young, yet he was whistling a toothless but patriotic 
whistle, over some bit of amateur-carpenter work, in front 
of a one-room bungalow. Inside, visible through the open 
door, was the paralyzed wife he had lately wheeled “home” 
to Vitrimont, in some kind of a cart. “Oh, yes, we are 
happy!” he stopped whistling to say. “We are fortunate, 
too. We think we have found the place where our street 
used to be, and these Angels — ^we do not call them Demoi- 
selles, but Angels — ^from America are going to build us a 
new home in it. We have seen the plan. It is more beau- 
tiful than the old!” 

Wherever we passed a house on the road to Luneville, 
and in town itself, as we came in, we saw notices — ^printed 
and written — to remind us that we were in the war-zone, if 
we forgot for an instant. Logement militaire,^* or 
*‘Cave voutSe, 200 places — 400 places** Those hospitable 
cellars advertising their existence in air raids and bombard- 
ments must be a comforting sight for passers-by, now and 
then; but no siren wailed us a warning. We drove on in 
peace; and I — disappointed at Vitrimont — quietly kept 
watch for a tall, thin figure of a man with a slight limp. 
At any moment, I thought, I might see him, for at Lune- 
ville he lives — if he lives anywhere ! 

I was so eager and excited that I could hardly turn my 
mind to other things; but Brian, not knowing why I should 
be absent-minded, constantly asked questions about 
what we passed. Julian OTarrell had exchanged his sister 
for Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, whom he had persuaded to take 
the short trip in his ramshackle taxi. His excuse was that 
Mother Beckett would deal out more wisely than Dierdre 
his Red Cross supplies to the returned refugees; so we had 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


135 


the girl with us; and I caught reproachful glances if I was 
slow in answering my blind brother. She herself suspects 
him as a poseur ^ yet she judges me careless of his needs 
— ^which I should find funny, if it didn’t make me furious ! 
Just to see what Dierdre would do, and perhaps to provoke 
her, sometimes I didn’t answer at all, but left her to explain 
our surroundings to Brian. I hardly thought she would 
respond to the silent challenge, but almost ostentatiously 
she did. 

She cried, “There’s a castle!” when we came to the fine 
and rather staid chateau which Duke Stanislas loved, and 
where he died. She even tried to describe it for Brian, with 
faltering self-consciousness, and the old streets which once 
had been “brilliant as Versailles, full of Queen Marie’s 
beautiful ladies.” Now, they are gray and sad, even those 
streets which show no scars from the three weeks’ martyr- 
dom of German rule. Soldiers pass, on foot and in motors, 
yet it’s hard to realize that before the war Luneville was 
one of the gayest, grandest garrison towns of France, rich 
and industrious, under Diana’s special protection. Just 
because she was away in her moon-chariot, one dark and 
dreadful night, all has changed since then. But she’ll 
come back, and bless her ancient place of Lunae Villa, in 
good time ! 

It was here, Brian reminded me, that they drew up 
the treaty which gave the Rhine frontier to France, after 
Napoleon won the Battle of Marengo. I wonder if the 
Germans remembered this in 1914 when they came.^ 

We lunched at an hotel, in a restaurant crowded with 
French officers; and not a civilian there except ourselves. 
I was hoping that Paul Herter might come in, for the 


136 


EVERYJVIAN^S LAND 


tragic Rue Princesse Marie is not far away — and even 
a Wandering Jew must eat! He did not come; but I 
almost forgot my new disappointment in hearing the 
French oflScers talk about Lorraine. 

They were in the midst of a discussion when we came 
in, and when they had all bowed politely to us, they took 
up its thread where it had broken off. A colonel — a 
Lorrainer — was saying that out of the wealth of Lorraine 
(stolen wealth, he called it!) Germany had built up her 
fortune as a united nation, in a few years far exceeding 
the indemnity received in 1871. Germany had known 
that there were vast stores of iron; but the amazing riches 
in phosphorus ores had come to her as a surprise. If she 
had guessed, never would she have agreed to leave more 
than half the deposit on the French side of the frontier! 
Well enough for Prussian boasters to say that Germany’s 
success was due to her own industry and supervirtue, or 
that her tariff schemes had worked wonders. But take 
away the provinces she tore from France, and she will be a 
Samson shorn! Take away Lorraine and the world will 
be rid once and for all of the German menace ! 

When we left Luneville there was still hope from Ger- 
beviller. Herter is often there, it seems. Besides, Gerbe- 
viller was the principal end and aim of our day’s excursion. 
Once no more than a pleasant town of quiet beauty on a 
pretty river, now it is a monument historique, the Pompeii 
of Lorraine. 

As we arrived the sun clouded over suddenly, and the 
effect was almost theatrical. From gold the light had 
dimmed to silver. In the midst of the afternoon, we saw 
Gerbeviller as if by moonlight in the still silence of night. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


1S7 


On the outskirts we forsook our three cars, and walked 
slowly through the dead town, awestruck and deeply 
thoughtful as if in a church where the body of some great 
man lay in state. 

There was not a sound except, as at Leomont, the 
unseen choir of bird- voices; but their song emphasized 
the silence. In the pale light the shells of wrecked houses 
glimmered white, like things seen deep down under clear 
water. They were mysterious as daytime ghosts; and 
already a heartbreaking picturesqueness had taken posses- 
sion of the streets, as an artist-decorator comes into an 
ugly room and mellows all its crudeness with his loving 
touch. 

Gerbeviller’s tragic little river Mortagne gleamed silver- 
bright beneath a torn lace of delicate white flowers that 
was like a veil flung off by a fugitive bride. It ran spark- 
ling under the motionless wheel of a burned mill, and 
twinkled on — the one living thing the Germans left — 
to flow through the park of a ruined chateau. 

When it was alive, that small chdteau must have been 
gay and delightful as a castle in a fairy tale, pink and 
friendly among its pleasant trees; but even in its prime, 
rich with tapestries and splendid old paintings, which 
were its treasures, never could the place have been so 
beautiful as in death! 

At a first glance — seen straight in front — the face of 
the house seems to live still, rosy with colour, gazing with 
immense blue eyes through a light green veil. But a 
second glance brings a shock to the heart. The face is a 
mask held up to hide a skull; the blue of the eyes is the 
open sky framed by glassless windows; the rosy colour 


138 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


is stained with dark streaks of smoke and flame; the 
chateau among its trees, and the chapel with its stopped 
clock and broken saints are skeletons. 

Not even OTarrell could talk. We were a silent pro- 
cession in the midst of silence until we came at last to 
the one quarter of the town whose few houses had been 
spared to the courage of Gerbeviller’s heroine, Soeur Julie. 

Her street (but for her it would not exist) has perhaps 
a dozen houses intact, looking strangely bourgeois, almost 
out of place, so smugly whole where all else has perished. 
Yet it was a comfort to see them, and wonderful to see 
Soeur Julie. 

We knocked at the door of the hospice, the cottage 
hospital which is famous because of her, its head and 
heart; and she herself let us in, for at that instant she had 
been in the act of starting out. I recognized her at 
once from the photographs which were in every illus- 
trated paper at the time when, for her magnificent bravery 
and presence of mind, she was named Chevaliere of the 
Legion of Honour. 

But with her first smile I saw that the pictures had 
done her crude injustice. They made of Soeur Julie an 
elderly woman in the dress of a nun; somewhat stout, 
rather large of feature. But the figure which met us in 
the narrow corridor had dignity and a noble strength. 
The smile of greeting lit deep eyes whose colour was 
that of brown topaz, and showed the kindly, humorous 
curves of a generous mouth. The flaring white headdress 
of the Order of Saint-Charles of Nancy framed a face 
so strong that I ceased to wonder how this woman had 
cowed a German horde; and it thrilled me to think that 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


139 


in this very doorway she had stood at bay, offering her 
black-robed body as a shield for the wounded soldiers 
and poor people she meant to save. 

Even if we had not come from the Prefet, and with 
some of his family who were her admiring friends, I’m 
sure Soeur Julie would have welcomed the strangers. As 
it was she beamed with pleasure at the visit, and called 
a young nun to help place chairs for us all in the clean, 
bare reception room. By this time she must know that 
she is the heroine of Lorraine — her own Lorraine! — and 
that those who came to Gerbeviller come to see her; but 
she talked to us with the [unself-consciousness of a child- 
It was only when she was begged to tell the tale of August 
23, 1914, that she showed a faint sign of embarrassment. 
The blood flushed her brown face, and she hesitated how to 
begin, as if she would rather not begin at all, but once 
launched on the tide, she forgot everything except her 
story : she lived that time over again, and we lived it with 
her. 

“What a day it was!” she sighed. “We knew what 
must happen, unless God willed to spare Gerbeviller by 
some miracle. Our town was in the German’s way. Yet 
we prayed — ^we hoped. We hoped even after our army’s 
defeat at Morhange. Then Luneville was taken. Our 
turn was near. We heard how terrible were the Bavarians 
under their general, Clauss. Our soldiers — ^poor, brav( 
boys! — ^fought every step of the way to hold them back. 
They fought like lions. But they were so few! The 
Germans came in a gray wave of men. Our wounded 
were brought here to the hospice, as many as we could 
take — and more! Often there were three hundred. But 


140 


EVERYMAN LAND 


when there was no hope to save the town, quick, with 
haste at night, they got the wounded away — ambulance 
after ambulance, cart after cart: all but a few; nineteen 
grands blessSs, who could not be moved. They were here 
in this room where we sit. But ah, if you had seen us 
— we sisters — helping the commandant as best we could ! 
We made ourselves carpenters. We took wooden shutters 
and doors from their hinges for stretchers. We split the 
wood with axes. We did not remember to be tired. We 
tore up our linen, and linen which others brought us. 
We tied the wounded boys on to the shutters. They 
never groaned. Sometimes they smiled. Ah, it was we 
who wept, to see them jolting off in rough country wagons, 
going we knew not where, or to what fate! All night we 
worked, and at dawn there were none left — except those 
nineteen I told you of. And that was the morning of the 
23rd of August, hot and heavy — a weight upon our hearts 
and heads. 

“Not only the wounded, but our defenders had gone. 
The army was in retreat. We had fifty-seven chasseurs 
left, ordered to keep the enemy back for five hours. They 
did it for eleven / From dawn till twilight they held the 
bridge outside the town, and fought behind barriers they 
had flung up in haste. Boys they were, but of a courage! 
They knew they were to die to save their comrades. 
They asked no better than to die hard. And they fought 
so well, the Germans believed there were thousands. Not 
till our boys had nearly all fallen did the enemy break 
through and swarm into the town. That was down at 
the other end from us, below the hill, but soon we heard 
fearful sounds — screams and shoutings, shots and loud 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


141 


explosions. They were burning the place street by street 
with that method of theirs! They fired the houses with 
pastilles their chemists have invented, and with petrol. 
The air was thick with smoke. We shut our windows to 
save the wounded from coughing. Soon we might all 
die together, but we would keep our boys from new suffer- 
ings while we could ! 

“Then at last the hour struck for us. One of our sis- 
ters, who had run to look at the red sky to see how near 
the fire came, cried out that Germans were pouring up the 
hill — four officers on horseback heading a troop of soldiers. 
I knew what that meant. I went quickly to the door 
to meet them. My knees felt as if they had broken under 
my weight. My heart was a great, cold, dead thing within 
me. My mouth was dry as if I had lost myself for days 
in the desert. I am not a small woman, yet it seemed 
that I was no bigger than a mouse under the stare of those 
big men who leaped off their horses, and made as 
if to pass me at the door. But I did not let them 
pass. I knew I could stop them long enough at least 
to kill me and then the sisters, one by one, before 
they reached our wounded! We backed slowly before 
them into the hall, the sisters and I, to stand guard before 
this room. 

“‘You are hiding Frenchmen here — ^French soldiers!’ 
a giant of a captain bawled at me. Beside him was a 
lieutenant even more tall. They had swords in their 
hands, and they both pointed their weapons at me. 

“‘We have nineteen soldiers desperately wounded,* I 
said. ‘There are no other men here.’ 

“‘You are lying!’ shouted the captain. He thought 


142 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


he could frighten me with his roar like a lion: but he did 
not seem to me so noble a beast. 

“‘You may come in and see for yourselves that I 
speak the truth/ I said. And think what it was for me, 
a woman of Lorraine, to bid a German enter her house! 
I did not let those two pass by me into this room. I 
came in first. While the lieutenant stood threatening 
our boys in their beds that he would shoot if they moved, 
the captain went round, tearing off the sheets, looking 
for firearms. In his hand was a strange knife, like a 
dagger which he had worn in his belt. One of our 
soldiers, too weak to open his lips, looked at the German, 
with a pair of great dark eyes that spoke scorn; and that 
look maddened the man with a sudden fury. 

“‘Coward, of a country of cowards! You and cattle 
like you have cut off the ears and torn out the eyes of our 
glorious Bavarians. I’ll slit your throat to pay for that!’ 

“Ah, but this was too much — more than I could bear! 
I said ‘No!’ and I put my two hands — so — between the 
throat of that boy and the German knife.” 

When Soeur Julie came to this part of the tale, she 
made a beautiful, unconscious gesture, re-enacting the 
part she had olayed. I knew then how she had looked 
when she faced the Bavarian officer, and why he had not 
hacked those two work-worn but nobly shaped hands of 
hers, to get at the French chasseur’s throat. She seemed 
the incarnate spirit of the mother-woman, whose selfless 
courage no brute who had known a mother could resist. 
And her “No!” rang out deep and clear as a warning 
tocsin. I felt that the wounded boy must have been as 
safe behind those hands and that “No!” as if a thick 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 143 

tliough transparent wall of glass had magically risen to 
protect him. 

“All this time,” Soeur Julie went on, gathering herself 
together after a moment. “All this time Germans led 
by non-commissioned officers were searching the hospice. 
But they found no hiding soldiers, because there were 
none such to find. And somehow that captain and his 
lieutenant did not touch our wounded ones. They had 
a look of shame and sullenness on their faces, as if they 
were angry with themselves for yielding their wicked 
will to an old woman. Yet they did yield, thank God! 
And then I got the captain’s promise to spare the hospice — 
got it by saying we would care for his wounded as faith- 
fully as we tended our own. I said, Tf you leave this 
house standing to take in your men, you must leave the 
whole street. If the buildings round us burn, we shall 
burn, too — and with us your German wounded. Will 
you give me your word that this whole quarter shall be 
safe.^’ 

“The man did not answer. But he looked down at 
his boots. And I have always noticed that, when men of 
any nation look at their boots, it is that they are undecided. 
It was so with him. A few more arguments from me, and 
he said: Tt shall be as you ask.’ 

“ Soon he must have been glad of his promise, for there 
were many German wounded, and we took them all in. 
Ah, this room, which you see so clean and white now, ran 
blood. We had to sweep blood into the hall, and so out 
at the front door, where at least it washed away the 
German footprints from our floor! For days we worked 
and did our best, even when we knew of the murders 


144 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


committed: innocent women with their little children. 
And the fifteen old men they shot for hostages. Oh, we 
did our best, though it was fike acid eating our hearts. 
But our reward came the day the Germans had to gather 
up their wounded in wild haste, as the French comman- 
dant had gathered ours before the retreat. They fled, and 
our Frenchmen marched back — too late to save the town, 
but not too late to redeem its honour. And that is all 
my story.” 

As she finished with a smile half sad, half sweet, Soeur 
Julie looked over our heads at some one who had just come 
in — some one who had stood listening in silence, unheard 
and unseen by us. I turned mechanically, and my eyes 
met the eyes of Paul Herter, the “Wandering Jew. ” 


CHAPTER XV 


D IERDRE O’FARRELL and I were sitting side 
by side, our backs to the door, so it was only 
as we turned that Herter could have recognized 
us. He had no scruple in showing that I was the last 
person he wished to meet. One look was enough for 
him! His pale face — changed and aged since London — 
flushed a dark and violent red. Backing out into the 
hall he banged the door. 

My ears tingled as if they had been boxed. I suppose 
I’ve been rather spoiled by men. Anyhow, not one ever 
before ran away at sight of me, as if I were Medusa."^ I’d 
been hoping that Doctor Paul and I might meet and make 
friends, so this was a blow : and it hurt a little that Dierdre 
O’Farrell should see me thus snubbed. I glanced at her; 
and her faint smile told that she understood. 

Soeur Julie was bewildered for a second, but recovered 
herself to explain that Doctor Herter was eccentric and 
shy of strangers. He came often from Luneville to 
Gerbeviller to tend the poor, refusing payment, and was so 
good at heart that we must forgive his odd ways. 

“ S'purlos versnubt!^’ I heard Puck chuckling to him- 
self; so he, too, was in the secret^of the situation. I half 
expected him to pretend ingenuousness, and spring the 
tale of Dierdre’s adventure with Herter on the company. 
But he preserved a discreet reticence, more for his own 
145 


146 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


sake than mine or his sister’s, of course. He’s as lazy 
as he is impish, except when there’s some special object 
to gain, and probably he wished to avoid the bother of 
explanations. As for Brian, his extreme sensitiveness is 
better than studied tact. I’m sure he felt magnetically 
that Dierdre O’Farrell shrank from a reference to her part 
in the night air raid. But his silence puzzled her, and I 
saw her studying him — more curiously than gratefully, 
I thought. 

We had heard the end of Soeur Julie’s story, and had no 
further excuse to keep her tied to the duties of hostess. 
When the Becketts had left something for the poor of the 
hospice, we bade the heroine of Gerbeviller farewell, and 
started out to regain our automobiles, Julian O’Farrell 
suddenly appearing at my side. 

“Don’t make an excuse that you must walk with your 
brother,” he said. “He’s all right with Dierdre; perhaps 
just as happy as with you! One does want a change from 
the best of sisters now and then.” 

“Mrs. Beckett ” I began. 

“Mrs. Beckett is discussing with Mr. Beckett what 
they can do for Gerbeviller, and they’ll ask your advice 
when they want it. No use worrying. They’ve boodle 
enough for all their charities, and for the shorn lambs, 
too.” 

“Do you call yourself a shorn lamb?” I sniffed. 

“Certainly. Don’t I look it? Good heavens, girl, you 
needn’t basilisk me so, to see if I do! You glare as if I 
were some kind of abnormal beast eating with its eyes, 
or winking with its mouth.” 

“You do wink with your mouth,” I said. 


EVERYMAN S LAND 


147 


^ou mean I lie? All romantic natures embroider 
truth. I have a romantic nature. It’s growing more 
romantic every minute since I met you. I started this 
adventure for what I could get out of it. I’m going on to 
the end, bitter or sweet, for les beaux yeux of Mary O’Mal- 
ley. I don’t grudge you the Becketts’ blessing, but I don’t 
know why it shouldn’t be bestowed on us both, with 
Dierdre and Brian in the background throwing flowers. 
You didn’t love Jim Beckett, for the very good reason 
that you never met him: so, if you owe no more debts than 
those you owe his memory, you’re luckier than ” 

It was not I who cut his words short, though I was on 
the point of breaking in. Perhaps I should have flung at 
him the truth about Jim Beckett if something had not 
happened to snatch my thoughts from O’Farrell and his 
impudence. We had just passed the quarter of the town 
saved by Soeur Julie, when out from the gaping doorway 
of a ruined house stepped Paul Herter. 

He came straight to me, ignoring my companion. 

‘‘I was waiting for you,” he said. “Will you walk on a 
little way with me? There are things I should like to 
speak about.” 

All the hurt anger I had felt was gone like the shadow 
of a flitting cloud. “Oh, yes!” I exclaimed. “I shall 
be very, very glad.” 

Whether O’Farrell had the grace to drop behind, or 
whether I pushed ahead I don’t know, but next moment 
Doctor Herter and I were pacing along, side by side, 
keeping well ahead of the others, in spite of his limp. 

“I thought I never wanted to see you again, Mary 
O’Malley,” he said; “but that glimpse I had, in the 


148 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


hospice, showed me my mistake. I couldn’t stand it 
to be so near and let you go out of my life without a word 
— not after seeing your face.” 

“It makes me happy to hear that,” I answered. “I 
was disappointed when you avoided me the other night, 
and — hurt to-day when you slammed the door.” 

“How did you know I avoided you? The girl promised 
to hold her tongue.” 

“She kept her promise. She was pleased to keep it, 
because she dislikes me. But I heard your name next 
day and understood. I — I heard other things, too. If 
you wouldn’t be angry, I should like to tell you how 
I ” 

“Don’t tell me.” 

“I won’t then. But I feel very strongly. And you 
will let me tell you how grieved I should have been, if — if 
that slammed door had been the end between us.” 

“The end between us was long ago.” 

“Not in my thoughts, for I never meant to hurt you. 
I never stopped being your friend, in spite of all the 
unkind, unjust things you said to me. I’m proud now 
that I had your friendship once, even if I haven’t it now.” 

“You had everything there was in me — except friend- 
ship. Now, of that everything, only ashes are left. The 
fires have burnt out. You’ve heard what I suppose they 
call my story, so you know why. If those fires weren’t 
dead, I shouldn’t have dared trust myself to risk this 
talk with you. As it is — I let your eyes call me back. 
Not that they called consciously. It was the past that 
called ” 

“They would have called consciously if you’d given 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


149 


them time!” I ventured to smile at him, with a look 
that asked for kindness. He did not smile back, but he 
did not frown. His deep-set eyes, in their hollow sockets, 
gazed at me as if they were memorizing each feature. 

“You’re lovelier than ever, Mary,” he said. “There’s 
something different about your face. You’ve suffered.” 

“My brother is blind.” 

“Ah! There’s more than that.” 

“Yes.” 

“You loved the son of these rich people the girl told 
me about? She says you didn’t love him, but she’s 
wrong — isn’t she?” 

“She’s wrong. She knows about things I’ve done, 
but nothing about what I think or feel. I did love Jim 
Beckett, Doctor Paul. You don’t mind being called by 
the old name? I’ve learned how it hurts to love.” 

“That will do you no harm, Mary. I can speak with 
you about such things now, for the spirit of a dead woman 
stands between us. I didn’t love her when she was alive. 
But if I hadn’t married her and brought her to France she’d 
be living now. She died through me — and for me. I think 
of her with immense tenderness and — a kind of loyalty; 
a fierce loyalty. I don’t know if you understand.” 

“Indeed I do! I almost envy her that brave death.” 

“We won’t talk of her any more now,” Herter said 
with a sigh. “I’ve a feeling she wouldn’t like us to discuss 
her, together. She used to be — jealous of you, poor girl! 
There are other things I wanted to say. The first — but 
you’ve guessed it already! — is this: the minute I looked 
into your face, there in the hospice, I forgave you the 
pain you made me suffer. In the first shock of meeting 


150 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


your eyes, I didn’t realize that I’d forgiven. It wasn’t 
till I’d slammed the door that I knew.” 

I didn’t repeat that I had not purposely done anything 
which needed forgiveness. I only looked at him with 
all the kindness and pity in my heart, and waited until 
he should go on. 

“The second thing I wanted to say is, that just the one 
look told me you weren’t happy and gay as you used to 
be. When I’d shut the door, I could still see you clearly, 
as if I had the power to look through the wood. I said 
to myself, that girl’s eyes have got the sadness of the whole 
world in them. They seem as if they were begging for 
help, and didn’t know where on earth it was coming 
from. Was that a true impression? I waited to ask 
you this, even more than to see you again.” 

“It is true,” I confessed. “There’s only this difference 
between my feelings and your impression of them. I 
know there’s no help on earth for me. Such help as there 
is, I get from another place. Do you remember how I 
used to talk about the dear Padre who was our guardian 
— my brother’s and mine — and how I told him nearly 
everything good and bad that I thought or did? Well, he 
went to the front as a chaplain and he has been killed. But 
I go on writing him letters, exactly as if he could give me 
advice and comfort, or scold me in the old way.” 

“What about your brother? The girl — Miss O’Farrell 
she called herself, I think — said he was with you on this 
journey. And to-day I recognized him at Soeur Julie’s, 
from his likeness to you. I shouldn’t have guessed he 
was blind. He has a beautiful face. Do you get no com- 
fort from him?^* 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


151 


“Much comfort from his presence and loVe,” I said. “But 
I try to keep him happy. I don’t bother him with my trou- 
bles. I won’t even let him talk of them. They’re taboo.” 

“I wish I could help you!” Her ter exclaimed. 

“Your wish is a help.” 

“Ah, but I’d like to give more than that! I’m going 
away — that’s the third thing I wanted to tell you. A little 
while ago I was glad to be going (so far as it’s in me, nowa- 
days, to be glad of anything) because I — I’ve been given a 
sort of — mission. Since we’ve had this talk, I’d put ojff 
going if I could. But I can’t. Is your brother’s case past 
cure?” 

“It’s not absolutely hopeless. Doctor Paul, this is a 
confidence! It’s to try and cure him that I’m with the 
Becketts. He doesn’t know — and I can’t explain more to 
you. But a specialist in Paris ordered Brian a life in the 
open air, and as much pleasure and interest as possible. 
You see, it’s the optic nerve that was paralyzed in a strange 
way by shell shock. Some day Brian’s sight may — just 
'possibly may — come back all of a sudden.” 

“Ah, that’s interesting. I’m not an oculist, but I know 
one or two of the best men, who have made great reputa- 
tions since this war. Who was your specialist in Paris?” 

I told him. 

“A good man,” he pronounced, “but I have a friend 
who is better. I’ll write you a letter to him. You can 
send it if you choose. That’s one service I can do for you, 
Mary. It may prove a big one. But I wish there were 
something else — something for you, yourself. Maybe there 
will be one day. Who can tell? If that day comes, I 
shan’t be found wanting or forgetful.” 


152 


EVERYJNIAN’S LAND 


“It’s worth a lot to have met you and had this talk,’’ 
I said. “It’s been like a warm fire to cold hands. I do 
hope, dear Doctor Paul, that you’re not going on a dan- 
gerous mission.^” 

He laughed — the quaint laugh I remembered, like a 
crackling of dry brushwood. “No more danger for me 
in it than there is for a bit of toasted cheese in a rat- 
trap.” 

“What a queer comparison!” I said. “It sounds as if 
you were going to be a bait to deceive a rat.” 

“Multiply the singular into the plural, and your quick 
wit has deciphered my parable.” 

“I’m afraid my wit doesn’t deserve the compliment. I 
can’t imagine what your mission really is. Unless ” * 

“Unless — ^what? No! Don’t let us go any further. 
Because I mustn’t tell you more, even if you should happen 
to guess. I’ve told you almost too much already. But 
confidence for confidence. You gave me one. Consider 
that I’ve confided something to you in return. There’s 
just a millionth chance that my mission — whatever it is — 
may make me of use to you. Give me an address that will 
find you always, and then — I must be going. I have to 
return to the hospice and see some patients. No need to 
write the directions. Better not, in fact. I shall have no 
difficulty in remembering anything that concerns you, even 
the most complicated address.” 

“It’s not complicated,” I laughed; and gave him the 
name of the Paris bankers in whose care the Becketts 
allow Brian and me to have letters sent — Morgan Harjes. 

He repeated the address after me, and then stopped, 
holding out his hand. “ That’s all,” he said abruptly. “ I 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 153 

shall be glad, whatever happens, that I waited, and had 
this talk with you. Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye — and good luck in the mission,” I echoed. 

He pressed my hand so hard that it hurt, and with one 
last look turned away. He did not go far, however, but 
stopped on his way back to ask Dierdre O’Farrell about her 
arm. She and Brian (Puck had joined the Becketts) were 
only a few paces behind me, and pausing involuntarily I 
heard what was said. It was easy to see that Dierdre 
wished me to hear her part. 

“My arm is going on very well,” she informed her 
benefactor. “I thank you again for your kindness in 
attending to it. But I don’t think it was kind to order me 
to keep a secret, and then give it away yourself. You 
made me seem an — ungracious pig and a fool. I shouldn’t 
mind that, if it did you good, in return for the good you’ve 
done me. But since it was for nothing ” 

“I apologize,” Herter broke in. “I meant what I said 
then. But a power outside myself was too strong for me. 
Maybe it will be the same for you some day. Meanwhile, 
don’t make the mistake I made: don’t do other people an 
injustice.” 

Leaving Dierdre at bay between anger and amazement, 
he stared with professional eagerness into Brian’s sightless 
eyes, and stalked off toward the hospiea. 


CHAPTER XVI 


S INCE I wrote you last, Padre, I have been in the 
trenches — real, live trenches, not the faded, half- 
filled-up ghosts of trenches where men fought long 
ago. I had to give my word not to tell or write any one 
just where these trenches are, so I won’t put details in 
black and white, even in pages which are only for you and 
me. I keep this book that you gave me in my hand-bag, 
and no eyes but mine see it — unless, dear Padre, you come 
and look over my shoulder while I scribble, as I often feel 
you do! Still — something might happen: an automobile 
accident; or the bag might be lost or stolen, though it’s 
not a gorgeously attractive one, like that in which Mother 
Beckett carries Jim’s letters. 

It was the day after Luneville and Gerbeviller. We 
started out once again from Nancy, no matter in which 
direction, but along a wonderful road. Not that the 
scenery was beautiful. We didn’t so much as think of 
scenery. The thrill was in the passing show, and later 
in the “camouflage.” We were going to be given a 
glimpse of the Front which the communiques (when they 
mention it at all nowadays) speak of as calm. Its alleged 
“calnmess” gave us non-combatants our chance to pay it 
a visit; but many wires had been pulled to get us there, and 
we had dwindled to a trio, consisting of Father Beckett, 
Brian, and me. Mother Beckett is not made for trenches, 
154 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


155 


even the calmest, and there was no permission for the 
occupants of the Red Cross taxi, who are not officially of 
our party. They have their own police pass for the 
war-zone, but all special plums are for the Becketts, shared 
by the O’Malleys; and this visit to the trenches was an 
extra-special superplum. 

All along the way, coming and going, tearing to meet us, 
or leaving us behind, splashed with gray mud after a night 
of rain, motor-lorries sped. They carried munitions or 
food to the front, or brought back tired soldiers bound for 
a place of rest, and their roofs were marvellously “camou- 
flaged ” in a blend of blue and green paint splotched with 
red. For aeroplanes they must have looked, in their pro- 
cessions, like drifting mist over meadowland. Shooting 
in and out among them, like slim gray swordfish in a school 
of porpoise, were military cars crowded with smart officers 
who saluted the lieutenant escorting us, and stared in 
surprise at sight of a woman. A sprinkling of these officers 
were Americans, and they would have astonished us more 
than we astonished them had we not known that we should 
see Americans. They were to be, indeed, the “feature” 
of the great show; and though Mr. Beckett was calm in 
manner to match the Front, I knew from his face that he 
was deeply moved by the thought of seeing “boys from 
home ” fighting for France as his dead son had fought. 

At each small village we saw soldiers who had been sent 
to the “back of the Front” for a few days’ change from the 
trenches. They lounged on long wooden benches before 
humble houses where they had logement; they sat 
at tables borrowed from kitchens, earnestly engaged 
at dominoes or manille, or they played houles in 


156 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


narrow grass alleys beside the muddy road. For them 
we had packed all vacant space in the auto with a cargo of 
cigarettes; and white teeth flashed and blue arms waved 
in gratitude as we went by. I think Father Beckett was 
happier than he had been since we left Paris. 

At last we came to a part of the road that was “camou- 
flaged” with a screen of branches flxed into wire. There 
was no great need of it in these days, our lieutenant ex- 
plained, but Heaven knew when it might be urgently 
wanted again: perhaps to-morrow! And this was where 
we said “aw revoir^' to our car. She was wheeled out of 
the way on to a strip of damp grass, under a convenient 
group of trees where no prowling enemy plane might 
“spot” her; and we set out to walk for a short distance 
to what had once been a farmhouse. Now, what was left 
of it had another use. A board walk (well above the mud), 
which led to the new, unpainted door, was guarded by 
sentinels, and explanations were given and papers shown 
before a rather elderly French captain appeared to greet 
us. Arrangements had been made for our reception, but 
we had to be identified; and when all was done we were 
given a good welcome. Also we were given helmets, and 
I was vain enough to fancy I had never worn a more 
becoming hat. 

Besides our own escort — the lieutenant who had brought 
us from Nancy— we had a captain and a lieutenant to 
guide us into the “calmness” of the trenches (the captain 
and a lieutenant for Mr. Beckett and Brian, The other 
lieutenant for me) and one would have thought that they 
had never before seen a woman in or out of a helmet! 
Down in a deep cellar-like hole, which they called “Z’an<i-. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


157 


chamhre, ’’all three ofiBcers coached Father Beckett and me 
in trench manners. As for Brian, it was clear to them 
that he was no stranger to trench life, and their treatment 
of him was perfect. They made no fuss, as tactless folk 
do over blind men; but, while feigning to regard him as 
one of themselves, they slily watched and protected his 
movements as a proud mother might the first steps of a 
child. 

On we went from the antichambre into a long mouldy 
passage dug deep into the earth. It was the link be- 
tween trenches; and now and then a sentinel popped 
out from behind a queer barrier built up as a protection 
against *'les Sclats d^obus. ” “This is the way the wounded 
come back,” said one of the lieutenants, “when there are 
any wounded. Just now (or you would not be here, 
Mademoiselle) there is” — he finished in English — “noth- 
ing doing. ” 

I laughed. “Who taught you that? ” 

“You will see,” he replied, making a nice little mystery. 
“You will see who taught it to me — and then some ! ” 

That was a beautiful ending for the sentence, and his 
American accent was perfect, even if the meaning of the 
poor man’s quotation was a little uncertain ! 

We turned several times, and I had begun to think of the 
Minotaur’s labyrinth, when the passage knotted itself into 
a low-roofed room, open at both ends, save for bomb 
screens, with a trench leading dismally off from an opposite 
doorway. “When is a door not a door?” was a conun- 
drum of my childhood, and I think the answer was: “When 
it’s ajar.” But nowadays there is a better rSplique: A 
door is not a door when it’s a dug-out. It is then a hole. 


158 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


kept from falling in upon itself by a log of wood or any- 
thing handy. This time, the “anything handy” seemed 
to be part of an old wheelbarrow, and on top were some 
sandbags. In the room, which was four times as long as 
it was broad, and twelve times longer than high, a few vague 
soldier-forms crouched over a meal on the floor, their 
tablecloth being a Paris newspaper. They scrambled to 
their feet, but could not stand upright, and to see their 
stooping salute to stooping officers in the smoky twilight, 
was like a vision in a dark, convex mirror. 

As we wound our way past the screen at the far end of 
the cellar dining-room, my lieutenant explained the method 
in placing each pare-Sclat, as he called the screen. “You 
see. Mademoiselle, if a bomb happened to break through 
and kill us, the screen would save the men beyond,” he 
said; then, remembering with a start that he was talking 
to a woman, he hurried to add: “Oh, but we shall not be 
killed. Have no fear. There’s nothing of that sort on 
our programme to-day — at least, not where we shall 
take 2/oii.” 

“Do I look as if I were afraid? ” I asked. 

“No, you look very brave. Mademoiselle,” he flattered 
me. “I’m sure it is more than the helmet which gives 
you that look. I believe, if you were allowed you would 
go on past the safety zone. ” 

“Where does the safety zone end?” I curiously ques- 
tioned. 

“It is different on different days. If you had come yes- 
terday, you could have had a good long promenade. 
Indeed that was what we hoped, when we arranged to 
entertain your party. But unfortunately the gentlemen 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


15S? 

in the opposing trenches discovered that Les Sammies had 
arrived on our secteur. They wanted to give them a recep- 
tion, and so — ^your walk has to be shortened, Mademoi- 
selle.” 

Suddenly I felt sick. I had the sensation Soeur Julie 
described herself as feeling when she met the giant German 
oflScers. But it was not fear. “Do you mean — while 
we’re here, safe — like tourists on a pleasure jaunt,” I 
stammered, “that American soldiers are being killed — in 

the trenches close by? It’s horrible ! I can’t ” 

“ II ne fautpas se fair e de la hile^ as onrpoilus say, when 
they mean ‘Don’t worry,’ Mademoiselle,” the lieutenant 
soothed me. “If there were any killing along this secteur 
you would hear the guns boom, n'esUce-pas ? You 
had not stopped to think of that. There was a little affair 
at dawn, I don’t conceal it from you. A surprise — a 
coup de main against the Americans the Boches intended. 
They thought, as all has been quiet on our Front for so 
long, we should expect nothing. But the surprise didn’t 
work. They got as good as they sent, and no one on our 
side was killed. That I swear to you. Mademoiselle! 
There were a few wounded, yes, but no fatalities. The 
trouble is that now things have begun to move, they may 
not sit still for long, and we cannot take risks with our 
visitors. The mountain must come to Mahomet. That 
is, les Sammies must call upon you, instead of you upon 
them. The reception room is chez nous Frangais, It is 
ready, and you will see it in a moment. ” 

Almost as he spoke we came to a dug-out of far more 
imposing architecture than the hole between trenches 
which we had seen. We had to stoop to go in, but once in 


160 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


we could stand upright, even Brian, who towered several 
inches above the other men. The place was lighted with 
many guttering candles, and tears sprang to my eyes at 
the pathos of the decorations. Needless to explain that 
the French and American flags which draped the dark 
walls were there in our honour ! Also there were a Colonel, 
a table, benches, chairs, some glasses, and one precious 
bottle of champagne, enough for a large company to sip, if 
not to drink, each other’s health. Hardly had we been 
introduced to the decorations, including the Colonel, when 
the Americans began to arrive, three young officers 
and two who had hardened into warlike middle age. It 
was heart-warming to see them meet Mr. Beckett, and 
their chivalric niceness to Brian and me was somehow 
different from any other niceness I remember — except 
Jim’s. 

Not that one of the men looked like Jim, or had a voice 
like his: yet, when they spoke, and smiled, and shook 
hands, I seemed to see Jim standing behind them, smiling 
as he had smiled at me on our one day together. I seemed 
to hear his voice in an undertone, as if it mingled with 
theirs, and I wondered if Jim’s father had the same almost 
supernatural impression that his son had come into the 
dug-out room with that little band of his countrymen. 

It is strange how a woman can be homesick for a man 
she has known only one day; but she can — she can — for a 
Jim Beckett! He was so vital, so central in life, known 
even for a day, that after his going the world is a back- 
ground from which his figure has been cut out, leaving a 
blank place. These jolly, brave American soldier-men 
made me want so desperately to see Jim that I wished a 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


161 


bomb would drop in — ^just a small bomb, touching only 
me, and whisking me away to the place where he is. In 
body he could not forgive me, of course, for what I’ve 
done; but in spirit he might forgive my spirit if it travelled 
a long way to see his ! 

I am almost sure that the Americans did bring Jim back 
to Father Beckett, as to me, for though he was cheerful, 
and even made jokes to show that he mustn’t be treated 
as a mourner, there was one piteous sign of emotion which 
no self-control could hide. I saw his throat work — the 
throat of an old man — his “Adam’s apple” going con- 
vulsively up and down like a tossed ball in a fountain jet. 
Then, lest I should sob while his eyes were dry, I looked 
away. 

We aU had champagne out of the marvellous bottle 
which had been hoarded during long months in case of 
“a great occasion,” and we economized sips but not 
healths. We drank to each one of the Allies in turn, and 
to a victorious peace. Then the officers — French and 
American — began telling us trench tales — no grim stories, 
only those at which we could laugh. One was what an 
American captain called a “peach”; but it was a French- 
man who told it: the American contingent have had no 
such adventures yet. 

The thing happened some time ago, before the “liveli- 
ness ” died down along this secteur. One spring day, in a 
rainy fog like a gray curtain, a strange pair of legs appeared, 
prowling alongside a French trench. They were not 
French legs; but instantly two pairs of French arms darted 
out under the stage-drop of fog to jerk them in. Down 
came a feldwebel on top of them, squealing desolately 


162 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“Kamerad!” He squealed many more guttural utter- 
ances, but not one of the soldiers in blue helmets, who soon 
r warmed round him, could understand a word he said. 
“Why the crowd ’’wondered the Captain of the company, 
appearing from a near-by dug-out. The queer quarry 
was dragged to the officer’s feet, and fortunately the Cap- 
tain, an Alsatian, had enough German for a catechism. 

“What were you doing close to our lines?” he de- 
manded. 

“Oh, Herr Captain, I did not know they were your lines. 
I thought they were ours. In our trench we are hungry, 
very hungry. I thought in the mist I could safely go a 
httle way and seek for some potatoes. Where we are they 
say there was once a fine potato field. Not long ago, one 
of our men came back with half a dozen beauties. Ah, 
they were good! I was empty enough to risk anything, 
Herr Captain. But I had no luck. And, worse still, the 
fog led me astray. Spare my life, sir ! ” 

“We will spare you what is worth more than a little 
thing like your life,” said the Captain. “We’ll spare you 
some of our good food, to show you that we French do not 
have to gnaw our finger-nails, lilce you miserable Boches. 
Men, take this animal away and feed it!” 

The men obeyed, enjoying the joke. The dazed Kam- 
erad was stuffed with sardines, meat, bread, and butter 
(of which he had forgotten the existence), delicious cheese, 
and chocolates. At last the magic meal was topped off 
with smoking hot black coffee, a thimbleful of brandy, 
and — a cigar / Tobacco and cognac may have been cheap, 
but they made the feldwehel feel as if he had died and gone 
to heaven. 


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163 


When he had eaten till his belt was tight for the first time 
in many moons, back he was hustled to the Captain. 

“Well — ^you have had something better than potatoes? 
Bon ! Now, out of this, quicker than you came! Your 
mother may admire your face, but we others, we have seen 
enough of it.” 

“But, Herr Captain,” pleaded the poor wretch, loth to be 
banished from Paradise, “I am your prisoner.” 

“Not at all,” coolly replied the officer. “We can’t be 
bothered with a single prisoner. What is one flea on a 
blanket? Another time, if we come across you again with 
enough of your comrades to make the game worth while, 
why then, perhaps we may give ourselves the pain of keep- 
ing you. You’ve seen that we have enough food to feed 
your whole trench, and never miss it.” 

Away flew the German over the top, head over heels, not 
unassisted: and after they had laughed awhile, his hosts 
and foes forgot him. But not so could he forget them. 
That night, after dark, he came trotting back with fifteen 
friends, all crying “Kamerad!” eager to deliver themselves 
up to captivity for the flesh-pots of Egypt. 

“But — ^we’re not to go without a glimpse of the Sammies, 
are we?” I asked, when stories and champagne were 
finished. 

The “Sammies’” officers laughed. “The boys don’t 
love that name, you know ! But it sticks like a burr. It’s 
harder to get rid of than the Boches. As for seeing them — 
(the boys, not the Boches!) well ” And a consulta- 

tion followed. 

The trenches beyond our dug-out drawing room could 
not be guaranteed “safe as the Bank of England ’’for non- 


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EVERYMAN’S LAND 


combatants that day, and no one wanted to be responsible 
for our venturing farther. Still, if we couldn’t go to the 
boys, a “bunch” of the boys could come to us. A lieu- 
tenant dashed away, and presently returned with six of 
the tallest, brownest, best-looking young men I ever saw. 
Their khaki and their beautiful new helmets were so like 
British khaki and helmets that I shouldn’t have been 
expert enough to recognize them as American. But some- 
how the merest amateur would never have mistaken those 
boys for their British brothers. I can’t tell where the 
difference lay. All I can say is that it was there. Were 
their jaws squarer.^ No, it couldn’t have been that, for 
British jaws are firm enough, and have need to be. Heaven 
knows! Were their chins more prominent? But millions 
of British chins are prominent. My brain collapsed in the 
strain after comparisons, abandoned the effort and drank 
in a draught of rich, ripe American slang as a glorious pick- 
me-up. No wonder the French officers in liaison have 
caught the new “code.” The coming of those brown 
boys with their bright and glittering teeth and witty words 
made up to us for miles of trenches we hadn’t seen. Gee, 
but they were bully ! Oh, hoy I Get hep to that ! 


CHAPTER XVII 


F ather BECKETT must have suffered dark 
hours of reaction after seeing those soldier-sons 
of American fathers, if there had been time to 
think. But we flashed back to Nancy in haste, for a 
late dinner and adieux to our friends. Brian and I 
snatched the story of our day’s adventure from his mouth 
for Mother Beckett; and luckily he was too tired to give 
her a new version. I heard in the morning that he had 
slept through an air raid ! 

I, too, was tired, and for the same reason: but I could 
not sleep. Waking dreams marched through my mind — 
dreams of Jim as he must have looked in khaki, dreams 
which made an air raid more or less seem unimportant. 
As the clocks of Nancy told the hours, I was in a mood 
for the first time since Gerbeviller to puzzle out the mean- 
ing of Paul Herter’s parable. 

What had he meant by saying that his mission would 
be no more dangerous than a rat-trap for a bit of toasted 
cheese? 

I had exclaimed, “That sounds as if you where to bait 
the trap!” but he had not encouraged me to guess. And 
there had been so much else to think of, just then ! His 
offer of introductions to specialists for Brian had appealed 
to me more than a vague suggestion of service to myself 
“some day.” 


165 


166 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


But now, through the darkness of night, a ray like a 
searchlight struck clear upon his cryptic hint. 

Somehow, Herter hoped to get across the frontier into 
Germany! His question, whether I had loved Jim Beckett, 
was not an idle one. He had not asked it through mere 
curiosity, or because he was jealous of the dead. His 
idea was that, if I had deeply cared for Jim, I should be 
glad to know how he had died, and where his body lay. 
Germany was the one place where the mystery could be 
solved. I realized suddenly that Doctor Paul expected 
“some day ” to be in a position to solve it. 

“He’s going into Germany as a spy,” I said to myself. 
“He’s a man of German Lorraine. German is his native 
language. Legally he’s a German subject. He’ll only 
have to pretend that he was caught by accident in France 
when the war broke out— and that at last he has escaped. 
All that may be easy if there are no spies to give him away 
— to tell what he’s been doing in France since 1914. The 
trouble will be when he wants to come back.” 

I wished that I could have seen the man again, to have 
bidden him a better farewell, to have told him I’d pray 
for his success. But now it was too late. Already he must 
have set off on his “mission,” and we were to start in the 
morning for Verdun. 

The thought of Verdun alone was enough to keep me 
awake for the rest of the night, to say nothing of air raids 
and speculations about Doctor Paul. It seemed almost 
too strange to be true that we were to see Verdun — ^V erdun, 
where month after month beat the heart of the world. 

The 0 ’Farrells had not got permission for Verdun, nor 
for Rheims, where we of the great gray car were going 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


167 


next. Still more than our glimpse of the trenches were 
these two places “extra special.” The brother and sister 
were to start with us from Nancy, but we (the Becketts, 
Brian, and I) were to part from them at Bar-le-Duc, where 
we would be met by an officer from Verdun. Two days 
later, we were to meet again at Paris, and continue — as 
Puck impudently put it — “owr role of ministering angels,” 
along the Noyon front and beyond. 

This programme was settled when — through influence 
at Nancy — Father Beckett’s passes for four had been 
extended to Verdun and Rheims. I breathed a sigh of 
relief at the prospect of two more days without the O ’Far- 
rells; and all that’s Irish in me trusted to luck that “some- 
thing might happen” to part us forever. Why not? The 
Red Cross taxi might break down (it looked ready to shake 
to pieces any minute!). Dierdre might be taken ill (no 
marble statue could be paler!). Or the pair might be 
arrested by the military police as dangerous spies. (Really, 
I wouldn’t “put it past” them!). But my secret hopes 
were rudely jangled with my first sight of Brian on the 
Verdun morning. 

“Molly, I hope you won’t mind,” he said, “but I’ve 
promised O’Farrell to go with them and meet you in Paris 
to-morrow night. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Beckett 
and he approves.” 

“This comes of my being ten minutes late!” I almost 
— not quite — cried aloud. I’d hardly closed my eyes 
all night, but had fallen into a doze at dawn and overslept 
myself. Meanwhile the O’Farrell faction had got in its 
deadly work! 

I was angry and disgusted, yet — as usual where that 


168 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


devil of a Puck was concerned — had the impulse to 
laugh. It was as if he’d put his finger to his nose and 
chuckled in impish glee: “You hope to get rid of us, do 
you, you minx? Well, I’ll show you!” But I should 
be playing his game if I lost my temper. 

“Why do the O’Farrells want you to go with them?” 
I “camouflaged” my rage. 

“It’s Julian who wants me,” explained the dear boy. 
(Oh, it had come to Christian names!) “It seems Miss 
O’Farrell has taken it into her head that none of us likes 
her, and that we’ve arranged this way to get rid of them 
both — letting them down easily and making some excuse 
not to start again together from Paris. O’Farrell thought 
if I’d offer to go with them and sit in the back of the car 
while he drove I could persuade her ” 

“Well, I don’t envy any one the task of persuading 
that girl to believe a thing she doesn’t wish to believe,” 
I exploded. “My private opinion is, though, that her 
brother’s sister needs no persuading. The two of them 
want to show me that they have power ” 

Brian broke in with a laugh. “My child, you see things 
through a magnifying glass! Is your blind brother a 
prize worth squabbling over? I can be of use to the 
Becketts, it’s true, when we travel without a military 
escort, or with one young officer who knows more about 
seventy-fives than about the romance of history. I can 
tell them what I’ve read and what I’ve seen. But at Ver- 
dun you’ll be in the society of generals ; and at Rheims of as 
many dignitaries as haven’t been bombarded out of town. 
The Becketts don’t need me. Perhaps Miss O’Farrell 
does.” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


169 


“Perhaps!” I repeated. 

Brian can see twice as much as those who have eyes, 
but he would not see my sarcasm. Just then, however, 
Mrs. Beckett joined us in the hall of the hotel, where we 
stood ready to start — all having breakfasted in our own 
rooms. She guessed from my face that I was not pleased 
with Brian’s plan. 

“My dear, I’d go myself with poor little Dierdre O’Far- 
rell instead of Brian!” she said. “Verdun isn’t one of 
Jim’s towns. Rheims is — ^but I’d have sacrificed it. There 
can’t be much left there to see. Only — two whole days! 
Father and I haven’t been parted so long in our lives since 
we were married. I thought yesterday, when you were 
away in those trenches, what a coward I’d been not to 
insist on going, and what if I never saw Father again ! I 
hope you don’t think I’m too selfish!” 

Poor darling, selfish to travel in her own car with her 
own husband! I just gave her a look to show what I 
felt; but after that I could no longer object to parting 
with Brian. Puck had got his way, and I could see by 
the light in his annoyingly beautiful eyes how exquisitely 
he enjoyed the situation. Brian and Brian’s kitbag were 
transferred to the Red Cross taxi, there and then, to save 
delay for us and the officer who would meet us, in case 
the wretched car should get a pannSy en route to Bar-le- 
Duc. As a matter of fact, that is what happened; or at 
all events when our big, reliable motor purred with us 
into Bar-le-Duc, the O’Farrells were nowhere to be seen. 

Our officer — another lieutenant — had arrived in a little 
Ford; and as we were invited to lunch in the citadel of 
Verdun we could not wait. I felt sure the demon Puck 


170 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Lad managed to be late on purpose, so that my Verdun 
day might be spoiled by anxiety for Brian. Thus he would 
kill two birds with one stone: show how little I gained 
by the enemy’s absence, and punish me for not letting 
him make love ! 

The road to Verdun was a wonderful prelude. After 
three years’ Titanic battling, how could there be a road 
at all? I had had vague visions of an earthly turmoil, a 
wilderness of shell-holes where once had gleamed rich 
meadows and vineyards, with little villages set jewel-like 
among them, and the visions were true. But through 
the war-worn desert always the road unrolled — the brave 
white road. Heaven alone could tell the deeds of valour 
which had achieved the impossible, making and remaking 
that road ! It should have some great poem all to itself, 
I thought; a poem called “The Road to Verdun.” And 
the poem should be set to music. I could almost hear 
the lilt of the verses as our car slipped through the tangle 
of motor camions and gun-carriages on the way thither. 
As for the music, I could really hear that without flight 
of fancy: a deep, rolling undertone of heavy wheels, of 
jolting guns, of pulsing engines, like a million beating 
hearts; and out of its muffled bass rising the lighter music 
of men’s voices: soldiers singing; soldiers going to the 
front, who shouted gaily to soldiers going to repose; 
soldiers laughing; soldier- music that no hardship or 
suffering could subdue. 

We had seen such processions before, but none so endless 
as this, going both ways, as far as the eye could reach. 
We had seen no such tremendous parks of artillery and 
aviation by the roadside, no such store of shells for big guns 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


171 


and little guns, no such pyramids of grenades for trenches 
and aeroplanes. We were engulfed in war, swallowed 
up in war. It was thrilling beyond words. 

But all the road flashed bright with thrills. There was 
a thrill at ‘Te Bois de Regrets,” forest of dark regret for 
the Prussians of 1792, where the French turned them back 
— the forest which Goethe saw: a thrill more keen for 
the pointing sign, “Metz, 47 kilomtoes,” which reminded 
us that less than thirty miles separated us from the great 
German stronghold, yet — “on ne passera pas !” And the 
deepest thrill of all at the words of our guide: **Voila la 
porte de Verdun 1 Nous y sommes,'* 

Turning off the road, we stopped our car and the little 
Ford to look up and worship. There it rose before us, 
ancient pile of gray stones, altar of history and triumph, 
Verodunum of Rome, city of warlike, almost royal bishops 
and rich burghers: town of treaties, sacked by Bajrbarians; 
owned and given up by Germans; seized by Prussians 
when the French had spiked their guns in 1870; and now 
forever a monument to the immortal manhood of France ! 

Perhaps it was the mist in my eyes, but at flrst sight 
Verdun did not look ruined, as I saw it towering up to 
its citadel in massive strength and stern dignity. The old 
houses on the slope stood shoulder to shoulder and back 
to back, like massed men fighting their last stand. It 
was only when we had started on again, and passing 
through the gate had slipped into the sorrowful intimacy 
of the streets, that Verdun let us see her glorious rags and 
scars. 

You would think that one devastated town would be 
much like another to look at save for size. But no ! I am 


172 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


learning that each has some arresting claim of its own to 
sacred remembrance. Nancy has had big buildings 
knocked down like card houses by occasional bombard- 
ment of great guns. Sermaize, Gerbeviller, Vitrimont 
and twenty other places we have seen were thoroughly 
looted by the Germans and then burned, street by street. 
But Verdun has been bombarded every day for weeks and 
months and years. The town is a royal skeleton, erect 
and on its feet, its jewelled sceptre damaged, but still 
grasped in a fleshless hand. The Germans have never 
got near enough to steal ! 

“You see,” said the smart young captain who had 
come out to meet us at the gate and take us to the citadel, 
“you see, nothing has been touched in these houses since 
the owners had to go. When they return from their 
places of refuge far away, they will find everything as 
they left it — that is, as the Boche guns have left it.” 

Only too easy was it to see! In some of the streets 
whole rows of houses had had their fronts torn off. The 
rooms within were like stage-settings for some tragic play. 
Sheets and blankets trailed from beds where sleepers had 
waked in fright. Doors of wardrobes gaped to show 
dresses dangling forlornly, like Bluebeard’s murdered 
brides. Dinner-tables were set out for meals never to be 
finished, save by rats. Family portraits of comfortable 
old faces smiling under broken glass hung awry on pink 
or blue papered walls. Half -made shirts and petticoats 
were still caught by the needle in broken sewing-machines. 
Dropped books and baskets of knitting lay on bright 
carpets snowed under by fallen plaster. Vases of dead 
flowers stood on mantelpieces, ghostly stems and shrivelled 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


17S 


brown leaves reflected in gilt -framed mirrors. I could 
hardly bear to look! It was like being shown by a hard- 
hearted surgeon the beating' of a brain through the sawed 
hole in a man’s skull. If one could have crawled through 
the crust of lava at Pompeii, a year after the eruption, 
one might have felt somewhat as at Verdun now ! 

On a broken terrace, once a beloved evening promenade, 
our two cars paused. We got out and gazed down, down 
over the River Meuse, from a high vantage-point where 
a few months ago, we should have been blown to bits, 
in five minutes. Our two oflBcers pointed out in the 
misty autumn landscape spots where some of the fiercest 
and most famous fights had been. How the names they 
rattled off brought back anxious nights and mornings 
when our first and only thoughts had been the com- 
muniques! “Desperate battle on the Meuse.” “Splen- 
did stand at Douaumont.” “New attack on Mort- 
homme.” But nothing we saw helped out our imaginings. 
There was just a vast stretch of desolation where vine- 
lands once had poured their perfume to the sun. The 
forts protecting Verdun were as invisible as fairyland, I 
said. “As invisible as hell!” one of our guides amended 
And then to me, in a low voice unheard by pale and trem- 
bling Mother Beckett, he added, “If Nature did not work 
to make ugly things invisible, we could not let you come 
here. Mademoiselle. See how high the grass has grown in 
the plain down there! In summer it is full of poppies, red 
as the blood that feeds their roots. And it is only the 
grasses and the poppies that hide the bones of men we’ve 
never yet put underground. Nature has been one of our 
chief sextons, here at Verdun. I wish you could have 


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EVERYMAN’S LAND 


seen the poppies a few months ago, mixed with blue 
marguerites and cornflowers — that we call ‘bluets.’ We 
used to say that our dead were lying in state under the 
tricolour flag of France. But I have made you sad, Made- 
moiselle. Je regrette / We must take you quickly to the 
citadel. Our general will not let you be sad there. ” 

We turned from the view over the Meuse and walked 
away in silence. I thought I had never heard so loud, 
so thunderously echoing, a silence in my life. 

Oh, no, it was not sad in the citadel! It was, on the 
contrary, very gay, of a gaiety so gallant and so pathetic 
that it brought a lump to the throat when there should 
have been a laugh on the lips. But the lump had to be 
swallowed, or our hosts’ feelings would be hurt. They 
didn’t want watery-eyed, full-throated guests at a luncheon 
worthy of bright smiles and keen appetites ! 

The first thing that happened to Mother Beckett and 
me in the famous fortress was to be shown into a room 
decorated as a ladies’ boudoir. All had been done, we 
were told almost timidly, in our honour, even the frescoes 
on the walls, painted in record time by a young lieuten- 
ant, who was an artist; and the officers hoped that they had 
forgotten nothing we might need. We could both have 
cried, if we hadn’t feared to spoil our eyes and redden 
our noses! But even if we’d not been strong enough to 
stifle our tears, there was everything at hand to repair 
their ravages. And all this in a place where the Revolution 
had sent fourteen lovely ladies to the guillotine for servilely 
begging the King of Prussia to spare Verdun. 

The lieutenant who met us at Bar-le-Duc had rushed 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


175 


there in advance of us, in order to shop with frantic haste. 
A long list must have been compiled after “mature 
deliberation” — as they say in courts-martial — otherwise 
any normal young man would have missed out something. 
In the tiny, subterranean room (not much larger than a 
cell) a stick of incense burned. The cot-bed of some 
hospitable captain or major disguised itself as a couch, 
under a brand-new silk table-cover with the price-mark 
still attached, and several small sofa cushions, also ticketed. 
A deal table had been painted green and spread with a 
lace-edged tea-cloth, on which were proudly displayed a 
galaxy of fittings from a dressing-bag, the best, no doubt, 
that poor bombarded Bar-le-Duc could produce in war 
time. There were ivory -backed hair and clothes brushes; 
a comb; bottles filled with white face-wash and perfume; 
a manicure-set, with pink salve and nail-powder; a tray 
decked out with every size of hairpin; a cushion bristling 
with pins of many-coloured heads; boxes of rouge, a hare’s- 
foot to put it on with; face-powder in several tints; swan’s- 
down puffs; black pencils for the eyebrows and blue for 
the eyelids; sweet-smelling soap — a dazzling and heavily 
fragrant collection. 

“Oh, my dear, what did they think of us.^^” gasped 
Mother Beckett. “What a shame the poor lambs should 
have wasted all their money and trouble ! ” 

“It mustn't be wasted!” said I. “Think how dis- 
appointed they’d be if they came in here afterward and 
found we hadn’t touched a thing ! ” 

“But ” she protested. 

“You wouldn’t hurt the feelings of the saviours of 
France? I’m going to make us both up! And there’s 


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EVERYMAN’S LAND 


no time to waste. They’ve given us fifteen minutes’ grace 
before lunch. For the honour of womanhood we mustn’t 
be late!” 

I sat her down in the only chair. I dusted her pure 
little face with pearl-powder and the faintest soupgon 
of rouge. I rubbed on her sweet lips just the suspicion 
of pink, liked by an elderly grande dame frangaise, who 
has not yet “abdicated.” I then made myself up more 
seriously: a blue shadow on the lids, a raven touch on 
the lashes; a flick of the hare’s-foot under my eyes and on 
my ear-tips: an extra coat of pink and a brilliant (most 
injurious!) varnish on the nails. Then, with a dash of 
Rose AmbrSe for my companion’s blouse and Nuits d'Orient 
for mine, we sallied forth scented like a harem, to do 
honour to our hosts. 

Luncheon was in a vast cavern of a vaulted banqueting- 
hall, in the deepest heart of that citadel, where for eleven 
years Napoleon kept his weary English prisoners. Electric 
lights showed us a table adorned with fresh flowers (where 
they’d come from was a miracle, but soon we were to see 
other miracles still more miraculous), French, British, 
and American flags, and pyramids of fruit. The Rose 
Ambree and Nuits d^Orient filled the whole vast salle, 
and pleased the officers, I was sure. They bowed and 
smiled and paid us compliments, their many medals 
glittered in the light, and their uniforms were resplendent 
against the cold background of the walls. I wished that, 
instead of one girl, I had been a dozen! But I did my 
best and so did Mother Beckett, who brightened into a 
charming second youth, the youth of a happy mother 
surrounded by a band of sons. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


177 


The lumps that had been in our throats had to be choked 
sternly down, for not to do justice to that meal would be 
worse than leaving the rouge and powder boxes unopened! 
The menu need not have put a palace to shame. In the 
citadel of Verdun it seemed as if it must have been evolved 
by rubbing Aladdin’s lamp, and I said so as I read it over: 

Huitres d’Ostende 
Bisque d’Ecrevisses 
Sanglier roti 

Puree de Pommes de Terre 
Soufflee de Chocolat 
Fruits 
Bonbons 

“Oh, we’ve never been hungry at Verdun, even when 
things were at their liveliest,” said the officer sitting next 
to me. “Providence provided for us in a strange way. 
I will tell you how. Before the civil population went 
away, or expected to go, there was talk of a long siege. 
The shopkeepers thought they would be intelligent and 
sent to Paris for all sorts of food. Oh, not only the 
grocers and butchers! Everyone. You would have 
laughed to see the jewellers showing hams in their windows 
instead of diamonds and pearls and gold purses, and the 
piles of preserved meat and fruit tins at the perfumers! 
The confectioners ordered stores of sugar and the wine 
merchants restocked their cellars. Then things began 
to happen. Houses were bombed, and people hustled out 
in a hurry. You have seen some of those houses! The 
place was getting too hot; and the order came for evacua- 
tion. Not much could be taken away. Transport was 


178 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


difficult in those days! All the good food had to be left 
behind, and we thought it would be a pity to waste it. 
Our chief bought the lot at a reasonable price — merchants 
were thankful to sell. So you see we did not need Alad- 
din’s lamp.” 

“I don’t quite see!” I confessed. “Because, that’s a 
long time ago, and these oysters of Ostende ” 

“Never saw Ostende!” he laughed. “They are a 
big bluff! We always have them when” — ^he bowed — 
“we entertain distinguished guests. The Germans used 
to print in their papers that we at Verdun could not 
hold out long, because we were eating rats. So we took 
to cutting a dash with our menus. We do not go into par- 
ticulars and say that our oysters have kept themselves 
fresh in tins ! ” 

“But the wild boar.?^” I persisted. “Does one tin 
wild boar.^^ ” 

“One does not! One goes out and shoots it. ilfa 
foiy it’s a good adventure when the German guns are not 
asleep! The fruit? Ah, that is easy! It comes as the 
air we breathe. And for our bonbons, the famous sugared 
almonds of Verdun were not all destroyed when the fac- 
tory blew up. ” 

With this he handed me a dish of the delicious things. 
“The story is,” he said, “that a certain Abbess brought 
the secret of making these almonds to Verdun. We have 
to thank Henry of Navarre for her. He had a pleasant 
way, when he wished to be rid of an old love with a com- 
pliment, of turning her into an Abbess. That time he 
made a lucky stroke for us.” 

At the end of luncheon we all drank healths, and nearly 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


179 


everyone made a speech except Mrs. Beckett. She only 
nodded and smiled, looking so ideal a little mother that 
she must have made even the highest officers homesick 
for their mamans. 

Then we were led through a mysterious network of 
narrow passages and vaulted rooms, all lit with electric 
lamps, and striking cold and cellary. We saw the big 
hospital, not very busy just then, and the clean, empty 
operating theatre, and gnome-caverns where munitions 
were stored in vast, black pyramids. When there was 
nothing left to see in the citadel, our hosts asked if we 
would like to pay a visit to the trenches — old trenches 
which had once defended Thiaumont. 

‘T don’t think my wife had better ” Mr. Beckett 

began; but the little old lady cut him short. ‘‘Yes, Father, 
I just had better! To-day, being among all these splendid 
brave soldiers has shown me that I’m weak — a spoiled 
child. I felt yesterday I’d been a coward. Now I know it ! 
And I’m going to see those trenches.” 

I believe it was partly the powder and lip salve that 
made her so desperate ! 

Her husband yielded, meek as a lamb. Big men like 
Mr. Beckett always do to little women like Mrs. Beckett. 
But she bore it well. And when at last we bade good-bye 
to our glorious hosts, she said to me, “Molly, you tell 
them in French, that now I’ve met them I understand 
why the Germans could never pass ! ” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


VIOST any place on earth would be an anti-climax 
the day after Verdun — but not Rheims! 



Just at this moment (it mayn’t be much more) 
Rheims is resting, like a brave victim on the rack who has 
tired his torturers by an obstinate silence. Only a few 


people are allowed to enter the town, save those who have 


lived there all along, and learned to think no more of 
German bombs than German sausages; and those favoured 
few must slip in and out almost between breaths. Any 
instant the torturing may begin again, when the Boches 
have bombs to spare for what they call “target practice”; 
for think, how near is Laon! — and we’d been warned 
that, even at the portals of the town, we might be turned 
back. 

We had still another new French oflScer to take us to 
Rheims. (I am getting their faces a little mixed, like a 
composite picture, but I keep sacredly all their dear 
visiting-cards!) He was a captain, with a scarred but 
handsome face, and he complimented Mother Beckett 
and me on our “courage.” This made Father Beckett 
visibly regret that he had brought us, though he had been 
assured that it was a “safe time.” However, his was not 
the kind of regret which tempts a man to turn back: it only 
makes his upper lip look long. 

I never saw Rheims in palmy days of peace. Now I 


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EVERYMAN’S LAND 


181 


wish I had seen it ! But there was that lithograph of the 
cathedral by Gustave Simonau, the great Belgian artist, 
hanging above your desk, in the den, Padre. I used to 
study it when I should have been studying my lessons, 
fascinated by the splendid fagade, the twin towers, the 
three “portals of the Trinity,” the rose-window, the 
gallery of kings, the angels, the saints, the gargoyles and 
all the carved stone lace-work which the picture so won- 
derfully shows. 

On the opposite side of the room was Simonau’s Cathe- 
dral of Chartres, in a dark frame to match, and I remember 
your saying that Chartres was considered by some critics 
even finer than Rheims. The Cathedral of Chartres 
seemed a romantic monument of history to me, because 
it was built as a shrine for the “tunic of the Virgin”; but 
the Gothic Notre-Dame of Rheims appealed to my — per- 
haps prophetic — soul. Maybe I had a latent presenti- 
ment of how I should see the real cathedral, as la grande 
blessSe of the greatest war of the world. 

Anyhow, I always took a deep interest, in Rheims from 
the day I first gaped, an open-mouthed child, at that 
beautiful drawing, and I was glad I’d forgotten none of 
its details, as we motored toward the martyr town. 
Usually there’s Brian, who can tell the dear Becketts all 
they don’t know and want to know, but this time they’d 
only me to depend upon. And when I think what a cruel 
fraud I am at heart, there’s some consolation in serving 
them, even in small ways. 

There’s a wide plain that knows desolately what Ger- 
man bombardment means: there are gentle hills rising 
out of it, south and west (will grapes ever be sweet on those 


m 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


sad hillsides again?) and there’s the little river Vesle that 
runs into the Aisne. There’s the Canal of the Aisne and 
the Marne, too — oh, many wide waters and little streams, 
to breathe out mist, for Rheims is on the pleasant Ile-de- 
France. There was so much mist this autumn day that 
it hid from our eyes for a long time the tall form of the 
Cathedral which should dominate the plain for many 
miles; a thick, white mist like the sheet with which a 
sculptor veils his masterpiece until it’s ready to face the 
world. As we drove on, and still saw no looming bulk, 
frozen fear pinched my heart, like horrid, ice-cold fingers. 
What if there ’d been some new bombardment we hadn’t 
had time to hear of, and the Cathedral were gone ? 

But I didn’t speak my fear. I tried to cover it up by 
chattering about Rheims. Goodness knows there’s a lot to 
chatter about! All that wonderful history, since Clovis 
was baptized by Saint Remi; and Charlemagne crowned, 
and Charles the VII, with Jeanne d’Arc looking on in 
bright armour, and various Capets, and enough other 
kings to name Notre-Dame of Rheims the “Cathedral of 
Coronations.” I remembered something about the Gate 
of Mars, too — the oldest thing of all — ^which the Remi 
people put up in praise of Augustus Csesar when Agrippa 
brought his great new roads close to their capital. I think 
it had been called Durocoroturum up to that time — or 
some equally awful name, which you remember only 
because you expect to forget! I hardly dared tell the 
Becketts about the celebrated archiepiscopal palace 
where the kings used to be entertained by the archbishops 
(successors of Saint Remi) while the coronation ceremo- 
nies were going on: and the Salle du Tau with its wonder- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


183 


ful hangings, its velvet-cushioned stone seats and carved, 
upright furniture, where the royal guests — in robes stiff 
with jewelled embroidery — had their banquets from plates 
of solid silver and gold. It seemed cruel to speak of 
splendours vanished forever, vanished like the holy oil of 
the sacred phial brought from heaven by a dove for the 
baptism of Clovis, and kept for the anointing of all those 
dead kings! 

But it was just the time and place to talk about Attila — 
Attila the First, I mean, of whom, as I told you, I firmly 
believe the present “incumbent” to be the reincarnation. 
As Attila I. thought fit to putRheims to the sword, Atilla II. 
is naturally impelled by the “spiral” to do his best from a 
distance, by destroying the Cathedral which wasn’t begun 
in his predecessor’s day. But what does he think, I won- 
der, about the prophecy? That in Rheims — scene of 
the first German defeat on the soil of Gaul — Germany’s 
last defeat will be celebrated, with great rejoicing in the 
Cathedral she has tried to ruin? 

Those words, “tried to ruin,” I uttered rather feebly, 
holding forth to the Becketts, because we had passed a 
long dark line of trees before which — ^we’d been told — ^we 
ought to see the Cathedral rise triumphant against an 
empty background of sky . And still there was nothing ! 

Of course, I told myself, it must be the mist. But 
could mist be thick enough entirely to hide a great moun- 
tain of a cathedral from eyes drawing nearer every min- 
ute? Then, suddenly, my question was answered by the 
mist itself. I must have hypnotized it! A light wind, 
which we had thought was made by the motor, cut like 
the shears of Lachesis through the woolly white web. A 


184 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


gash of blue appeared and in the midst, floating as if it 
had died and gone to heaven, the Cathedral. 

Yes, “died and gone to heaven ! ’ ’ That is just what has 
happened to Notre-Dame of Rheims. The body has been 
martyred, but the soul is left alive — ^beautiful, brave soul 
of the old stones of France ! 

“Oh!” went up from three voices in the motor-car. I 
think even our one-legged soldier-chauffeur emitted a 
grunt of joy; and Mother Beckett clasped her hands on 
her little thin breast, as if she were praying, such a wonder- 
ful sight it was, with the golden coronation of the noon- 
day sun on the towers. Our officer-guide, in his car 
ahead, looked back as if to say, “ I told you so ! They 
can’t kill France, and Rheims is the very spirit and youth 
of France.” 

Not one of us spoke another word until we drove into 
the town, and began exclaiming with horror and rage at 
what Attila II has done to the streets. 

The mist had fallen again, not white in the town, but a 
pale, sad gray, like a mantle of half -mourning. It hung 
over the spacious avenues and the once fine, now desolate, 
streets, which had been the pride of Rheims; it slipped 
serpent-like through what remained of old arcades: it 
draped the ancient Gate of Mars in the Place de la Repub- 
lique as if to hide the cruel scars of the bombardment; it 
lay like soiled snow on the mountain of tumbled stone 
which had been the Rue St. Jacques; it curtained the 
“show street” of Rheims, the Rue de la Grue, almost as 
old as the Cathedral itself, which a Sieur de Coucy began 
in 1212; trickling gray as glacier waters over the fallen walls 
which artists had loved. It marbled with pale streaks the 


EVEHYMAN’S LAND 


185 


burned, black corpse of the once famous Maison des 
Laines; it clouded the marvellous old church of St. Remi, 
and when we came to the Cathedral — kept for the climax 
— it floated past the wounded statues on the great western 
fagade like an army of spirits — spirits of all those watching 
saints whom the statues honoured. 

The crowns of the broken towers we could not see, but 
at that height the mist was gilded by the sun which sifted 
through so that each tower seemed to have its own faint 
golden halo. 

“This effect comes often on these foggy autumn days, 
when the sun is high, about noontime,” said our guide. 
“It’s rather wonderful, isn’t it? We have a priest-soldier 
invalided here now, who used to be of the service in the 
Cathedral, before he volunteered to fight. He has written 
some verses, which it seems came to him in a dream one 
night. Whether the world would think them fine I do not 
know, but at Rheims we like them. The idea is that 
Jeanne d’Arc has mobilized the souls of the saints who 
protect Rheims, to bless and console the Cathedral, which 
they were not permitted to save from outward ruin. It is 
she who gilds the mist on the towers with a prophecy of 
hope. As for the mist itself, according to the poet, it is 
no common fog. It is but the cloak worn by this 
army of saints to visit their cathedral, and bathe its 
wounds with their cool white hands, so that at last, 
when peace dawns, there shall be a spiritual beauty 
found in the old marred stones — a beaoiky they never had 
in their prime.” 

“I should like to see that soldier-priest!” said Father 
Beckett, when I had translated for him the officer’s de- 


186 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 

scrip tion of the poem. “Couldn’t we meet him? What’s 
his name? ” 

I passed on the questions to our captain of the scarred 
face. “The man’s name is St. Pol, ” he told us. “You can 
see from that he comes of an old family. If it had been 
this day last week you could have met him. He would 
have been pleased. But — since then — alas! Mademoi- 
selle, it is impossible that he should be seen. It would be 
too sad for you and your friends. ” 

“He has been wounded in some bombardment?” I ex- 
claimed. 

.“Not wounded — ^no. We don’t think much of wounds. 
What has happened is sadder than wounds. Some day 
the man may recover. We hope so. But at present he — 
is out of everything, dead in life. ” 

“ What happened? ” I gasped. 

“Oh, it is quite a history!” said the Captain. “But it 
begins a long time ago, when the Germans came to Rheims 
in 1914. Perhaps it would fatigue you? Besides, you 
have to translate, which takes double the time. I might 
write out the story and send it. Mademoiselle, if you like. 
You and your friends are not as safe here as in your own 
houses, I do not disguise that from you! The Germans 
^ have let us rest these last few days. Yet who can tell 
when they may choose to wake us up with a bomb or two? ” 
“I don’t think we’re afraid,” I said, and consulted the 
Becketts. The little old lady answered for both. She 
was stoutly sure they were not afraid! “We shouldn’t 
deserve to be Jim’s parents if we were — of a thing like 
that ! You tell the Captain, Molly, we’re getting used to 
bombs, and we want the story right here, on the spot ! ” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


187 


*^C’est tres cMc^ ga /” remarked the Captain, eyeing the 
mite of a woman. He stood for a minute, his scarred face 
pale in the mist, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on a headless 
stone king. Then he began his story of the soldier-priest. 

Monsieur le Cure de St. Pol was very young when the 
war began — almost as young as a curS can be. He did not 
think, at first, to become a soldier, for he hated war. But, 
indeed, in those early days he had no time to think at all. 
He only worked — worked, to help care for the wounded 
who were pouring into Rheims, toward the last of August, 
1914. Many were brought into the Cathedral, where they 
lay on the floor, on beds of straw. The Cure’s duty was 
among these. He had relations in Rheims — a family of 
cousins of the same name as his. They lived in a beautiful 
old house, one of the best in Rheims, with an ancient chapel 
in the garden. There was an invalid father, whose wife 
devoted her life to him, and a daughter — a very beautiful 
young girl just home from a convent-school the spring 
before the war broke out. There was a son, too — ^but 
naturally, he was away fighting. 

This young girl, Liane de St. Pol, was one of many in 
Rheims who volunteered to help nurse the wounded. All 
girls brought up in convents have some skill in nursing, 
you know! 

While she and the Cure were at work in the Cathedral, 
among the wounded men who came in were her own 
brother, a lieutenant, and his best friend, a captain of his 
regiment. Both were badly hurt — the St. Pol boy worse 
than his friend. Yet even for him there was hope — if he 
could have had the best of care — if he could have been 
taken home and lovingly nursed there. That was not 


188 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


possible. The surgeons had no time for house-to-house 
visits. He was operated on in the Cathedral, and as he lay 
between life and death, news came that the Germans were 
close to Rheims. 

In haste the wounded were sent to Epernay — to save 
them from being made prisoners. But some could not 
go : Louis de St. Pol and his friend Captain Jean de Visgnes. 
De Visgnes might have been hidden in the St. Pol house 
but he would not leave the boy, who could not be moved so 
far. The Cure vowed to hide both, and he did hide them 
in a chapel of the Cathedral itself. On September 3, at 
evening, the first Germans rode into the town and took up 
their quarters in the Municipal Palace, where they forced 
the Mayor, a very old man, to live with them. It was 
a changed Rheims since the day before. The troops of 
the garrison had gone in the direction of Epernay, since 
there was no hope of defence. Many rich people had 
fled, taking what they could carry in automobiles or cabs. 
The poor feared a siege — or worse: they knew not what. 
The St. Pol family received into their house a number of 
women whose husbands were at the Front, and their 
babies. No one ventured out who could stay indoors. 
The city filled up with German soldiers, with the Kaiser’s 
son, Prince August Wilhelm, at their head. They, too, had 
wounded. The Cathedral was put to use for them, and 
the Cure cared for the Boches as he had cared for the 
French. This gave him a chance, at night, to nurse his 
two friends. So dragged on seven days, which seemed 
seven years; and then rumours drifted in of a great 
German retreat, a mysterious failure in the midst of seem- 
ing victory. The Battle of the Marne was making 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


189 


itself felt. In rage and bewilderment the Germans 
poured out of Rheims, leaving only their wounded behind. 
The townspeople praised God, and thought their trial was 
over. But it was only just begun! On the 16th the bom- 
bardment opened. The Germans knew that their woun- 
ded still lay in the Cathedral, but they did not seem to 
care for men out of the fighting line. A rain of bombs fell 
in the town — one of the first wrecked the Red Cross ambu- 
lance — and many struck the Cathedral. Then came the 
night when the straw bedding blazed, and fire poured 
through the long naves, rising to the roof. 

The Cure told afterward how wonderful the sight was 
with the jewelled windows lighting up for the last time, 
before the old glass burst with the shrill tinkle of a million 
crystal bells. He and Jean de Visgnes carried Louis de 
St. Pol out into the street, but the boy died before they 
reached his father’s house, and De Visgnes had a dangerous 
relapse. It was on this night that the Cure made up his 
mind to volunteer, and soon he was at the Front. Nearly 
three years passed before he and De Visgnes met again, both 
en 'permission^ travelling back to Rheims to pass their 
“perm. ” Jean was now engaged to Liane de St. Pol who, 
with her parents, had remained in the bombarded town, 
refusing to desert their poor protegees. The two planned 
to marry, after the war; but Liane had been struck by a 
flying fragment of shell, and wounded in the head. De 
Visgnes could bear the separation no longer. He made 
the girl promise to marry him at once — in the chapel of 
the old house, as she was still suffering, and forbidden to 
go out. His leave had been granted for the wedding, 
and the moment Liane was strong enough she and the 


190 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


old people would leave Rheims. Jean was to take them 
himself to his own home in Provence. The Cure was to 
marry his cousin to the man whose life he had saved. 

Many children of the poor whom Liane had helped 
decorated the chapel with flowers, and though the wedding- 
day was one of fierce bombardment, no one dreamed of 
putting off the ceremony. No fine shops for women’s 
dress were open in Rheims, but the bride wore her mother’s 
wedding-gown and veil of old lace. None save the family 
were asked to the marriage, because it was dangerous to 
go from house to house; yet all Rheims loved Liane, and 
meant to wish happiness for bride and bridegroom as the 
chapel-bells chimed for their union. But the bells began 
and never finished. At the instant when Liane de St. Pol 
and Jean de Visgnes became man and wife a bomb fell 
on the chapel roof. The tiles collapsed like cards, and 
all the bridal party was killed as by a lightning stroke. 
Only the soldier-priest was spared. Strangely, he was not 
even touched. But horror had driven him mad. Since 
then he spoke only to rave of Liane and Jean; how beauti- 
ful they had looked, lying dead before the wrecked altar. 

“The doctors say it is like a case of shell-shock,” the 
Captain finished. “They thmk he’ll recover. But at 
present, as I said — it is a sad affair. Sad for him — not for 
those who died together, suffering no pain. One of the 
Cure’s favourite sayings used to be, they tell me, T)eath 
is not an end, but a beginning.’ ” 

“ You know him well.?^ ” I asked. 

“Yes. I was stationed in Rheims before the war. I 
used to dance with Liane when she came home from 
school.” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 191 

“Ah, if only her family hadn’t stayed here till too late!” 
I cried. 

The captain with the scarred face shrugged his shoul- 
ders. “Destiny!” he said. “Besides, the best people 
do not run away easily from the homes they love. Per- 
haps they have the feeling that, in a home which has al- 
ways meant peace, nothing terrible can happen. Yet 
there’s more in it than that — something more subtle 
which keeps them in the place where they have always 
lived: something, I think, that binds the spirits of us 
Frenchmen and women to the spirit of their own hearths — 
their own soil. Haven’t you found that already, in other 
places you have visited in this journey of yours? ” 

“Yes,” I answered, thinking of the old people I had seen 
at Vitrimont living in the granaries of their ruined houses, 
and strangely, unbelievably happy because they were “at 
home.” “Yes, we have seen that in little villages of 
Lorraine.” 

“Then how much more at Rheims, under the shadow of 
Notre-Dame!” The scarred captain still gazed at the 
headless king , and faintly smiled. 


CHAPTER XIX 


O F COURSE nothing did happen in Paris to break 
I up the party. I might have known that nothing 
would. Nothing happened at all, except that I 
received a letter from Doctor Herter with the promised 
introduction to an oculist just now at the Front, and that 
I realized, after three days’ absence, how Brian is improv- 
ing. He has less the air of a beautiful soul, whose incar- 
nation in a body is a mere accident, and more the look of 
a happy, handsome young man, with a certain spiritual 
radiance which makes him remarkable and somehow 
“disturbing,” as the French say. If anything could 
stop the rats gnawing my conscience, it would be this 
blessed change. Brian is getting back health and strength . 
When I think what a short time ago it is that his life 
hung in the balance, this seems a miracle. I’m afraid 
I am glad — glad that I did the thing which has given him 
his chance. Besides, I love the Becketts. So does Brian. 
And they love us. It’s difficult to remember that I’ve 
stolen their love. Surely, they’re happier with us than 
they could have been without us? Brian’s scheme for 
their visits to the liberated towns is doing good to them 
and to hundreds — even thousands — of people whom they 
intend to help. 

All this is sophistry, no doubt, but oh, it’s beguiling 
sophistry ! It’s so perfectly disguised that I seldom recog- 
192 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


193 


nize it except at night when I lie awake, and it sits on my 
bed, without its becoming mask. 

Being the Becketts’ adviser-in-chief, and having his 
lungs full of ozone every day should be enough to account 
for Brian’s improvement. Yet — well, I can’t help think- 
ing that he takes a lot more trouble than he need for 
Dierdre O’Farrell. Oh, not that he’s in love ! Such an 
idea is ridiculous, but he’s interested and sorry for the 
girl, because she goes about with a chip on her shoulder, 
defying the world to knock it off. He won’t admit that 
it’s the fault of her outlook on the world, and that the 
poor old world isn’t to blame at all. 

What if he knew the truth about that brother and sister? 
Naturally I can’t tell him, of all people on earth, and 
they take advantage of my handicap. They’ve used 
their time well, in my absence, when they had Brian to 
themselves. He had his doubts of Julian, but the creature 
has sung himself into my blind brother’s heart. From 
what I hear, the three have spent most of their time at the 
piano in the private salon which the Becketts invited the 
O’Farrells to engage. 

Now, as I write, we are making our headquarters in 
Compiegne, sleeping there, and sightseeing by day on 
what they call the “Noyon Front.” 

After Rheims and before Noyon we stopped three days in 
Paris instead of one, as we’d planned, for Mother Beckett 
was tired. She wouldn’t confess it, but “Father ” thought 
she looked pale. Strange if she had not, after such ex- 
periences and emotions! Sometimes, when I study the 
delicate old face, with blue hollows under kind, sweet 
eyes, I ask myself: “Will she be able to get through the 


194 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


task she’s set herself?” But she is so quietly brave, not 
only in fatigue, but in danger, that I answer my own 
question: “Yes, she will do it somehow, on the reserve 
force that kept her up when Jim died.” 

The road from Paris, past Senlis, to Compiegne, was 
even more thrilling than the road to Nancy and beyond, 
for this was the way the Germans took in September, 1914, 
when they thought the capital was theirs to have and 
hold: ‘la route de V Allemagne^^ it used to be called, but 
never will French lips give it that name again. 

Just at first, running out of the city in early morning, 
things looked much the same as when starting for Nancy : 
the unnatural quiet of streets once crammed with busy 
traffic for feeding gay Paris; military motors of all sorts 
and sizes, instead of milk wagons and cartloads of colour- 
ful fruits; women working instead of men; children on their 
way to school, sedately talking of “papa au Front,'* instead 
of playing games. But outside the suburbs the real thrills 
began. 

There were the toy -like fortifications of which Paris was 
proud in the ’fifties; there was the black tangle of barbed 
wire, and the trace of trenches (a mere depression on the 
earth’s surface, as if a serpent had laid its heavy length on 
a great, green velvet cushion) with which Paris had hoped 
to delay the German wave. Only a little way on, we shot 
through the sleepy-looking village of Bourget where Napo- 
leon stopped a few hours after Waterloo, rather than 
enter Paris by daylight; and Brian had a story of the place. 
A French soldier, a friend of his (nearly everyone he meets 
is Brian’s friend!) who was born there, told him that on 
each anniversary the ghost of the “Little Corporal” ap- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


195 


pears, travel-stained and worn, on the road leading to 
Bourget. For many years his custom was to show himself 
for a second to some seeing eye, then vanish like a mirage 
of the desert. But since 1914 his way is different. He 
does not confine his visit to the hamlet of sad memories. 
He walks the country side, his hands behind him, his 
head bent as of old; or he rides a horse that is slightly 
lame, inspecting with thoughtful gaze the frenzied indus- 
tries of war, war such as he — the war-genius — never saw 
in his visions of the future: the immense aerodromes, 
the bomb sheds, the wireless stations and observation 
towers, the giant saucisses'" resting under green canvas, 
ready to rise at dawn ; and all the other astounding features 
of the landscape so peaceful in his day. 

Even now parts of it are peaceful, often the very spots 
marked by history, where it seems as if each tree should 
be decorated by a Croix de Guerre. For instanee, there 
was the place — a junction of roads — where the Uhlans 
with a glitter of helmets came proudly galloping toward 
Paris, and to their blank amazement and rage had to 
turn back. As we halted to take in the scene, it was mys- 
terious as dreamland in the morning mist. Nothing 
moved save two teams of cream-coloured oxen, their 
moon-white sides dazzling behind a silver veil. The pale 
road stretched before us so straight and far that it seemed 
to descend from the sky like a waterfall. Only the trees 
had a martial look, like tall, dark soldiers drawn up in 
line for parade. 

It was not till we plunged into forest depths that I said to 
myself: “We must be coming near Senlis !” For the very 
name “Senlis” fills the mind with forest pictures. No 


196 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


wonder, since it lies walled away from the outer world — like 
the Sleeping Beauty — by woods, and woods, and woods: 
the forests of Hallette, Chantilly, and Ermenonville, each 
as full of history as it is now of aromatic scents, and used to 
be of wild boars for kings to kill ! 

I think the best of the forest pictures has Henri de 
Navarre for its principal figure. Brian and I turned over 
the pages of our memory for the Becketts, who listened 
like children to fairy tales — or as we listened when you used 
to embroider history for us in those evening causeries 
in the dear old “den, ” Padre. 

I dug up the story about Henri at twenty -one, married 
more than a year to beautiful, lively Marguerite de Valois, 
and enduring lazily the despotism of his mother-in-law. 
There in the old palace of the Louvre, he loitered the time 
away, practically a prisoner until the only friend he had 
with courage to speak out (Agrippa d’Aubigny) gave him 
a lecture. Agrippa lashed his master with the words 
“coward” and “sluggard,” letting his faithful servants 
work for his interests while he remained the slave of a 
“wicked old witch.” The Bearnais had been biding his 
time — “crouching to spring”: but that slap in the face set 
him on fire. He could no longer wait for the right moment. 
He decided to make the first moment the right one. His 
quick brain mapped out a plan of escape in which the sole 
flaw was that he must leave behind his brilliant bride. 
With eight or ten of his greatest, most loyal gentlemen, he 
arranged to hunt in the forest of Senlis; and he had shown 
himself so biddable, so boyish, that at first even Catherine 
de Medicis did not suspect him. It was only when the 
party had set forth that the plot burst like a bomb, in 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 197 

Catherine’s own boudoir, where she sat with her favourite 
son, vile Henri III of France. 

Fervacques, one of the plotters, had stopped in Paris, 
feigning illness. The plan had been concocted in his 
rooms, and he but waited for Navarre’s back to be turned 
to betray him. Marguerite laughed when she heard (per- 
haps she was in the secret), but Catherine said evil words, 
of which she knew a great many — especially in Italian. 
Orders were given for the gates of Paris to be shut (gates 
that in those days barred the road along which we now 
motored), but they were too late. Navarre and his hun- 
ters had passed through. Agrippa d’Aubigny was not 
among them. His part had been to watch the happenings 
of the Court, and join Navarre later in his own kingdom, 
but that hope was broken. Disguised as a mignon of 
Henri HI, he slipped out of Paris on a fast horse, tore after 
the Beamais and his equerries, and caught the cavalcade 
in the forest. “Thou art betrayed ! ” he cried. 

“ But not captured ! ” laughed Navarre. 

In haste they substituted a new plot for the old. The 
young king was to pretend ignorance of the betrayal. 
He ‘installed himself accordingly in the best lodgings of 
Senlis, talking loudly about hunting prospects, arranged 
to see a performance by travelling actors, and sent such a 
message back to Catherine and Henri that they believed 
Fervacques had fooled them. 

By the time they’d waked to the truth, Navarre had 
ridden safely out of Senlis with his friends, bound for the 
kingdom on the Spanish border. Even then he was a 
man of big ambitions; so maybe he said to himself, looking 
back at Senlis: “I shall travel this road again, as king 


198 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


of France, to enter Paris in triumph.” Anyhow, he was 
grateful to Senlis for saving him, and stayed there often, 
as Henri Quatre, flirting with pretty ladies, and inviting 
them to become abbesses when he tired of them. 

Lots of things have happened in Senlis, because it’s on 
the road to Paris, and for centuries has been getting into 
someone’s way. Why, if it hadn’t been for Senlis, 
William the Conqueror might never have conquered! 
You see, before William’s day. Count Bernard of Senlis 
(who boasted himself a forty-second grandson or some- 
thing of Charlemagne) quarrelled with King Louis IV of 
Erance. To spite him, Bernard adopted the baby son of 
William Longsword, Duke of Normandy, killed in battle; 
for Normandy was a “thorn in the eye” of France. 
Thanks to Bernard’s help Normandy gained in riches 
and importance. By the time William, son of Robert the 
Devil and Arlette of Falaise, appeared on the scene, the 
dukedom was a power in the world, and William was able 
to dare his great enterprise. 

But that was only one incident. Senlis was already an 
old, old town, and as much entitled to call itself a capital 
of France as was Paris. Not for nothing had the Gallo- 
Romans given it walls twenty feet high and thirteen feet 
thick! They could not have builded better had they 
meant to attract posterity’s attention, and win for their 
strong city the admiration of kings. Clovis was the first 
king who fancied it, and settled there. But not a king who 
followed, till after the day of Henri Quatre, failed to live 
in the castle which Clovis began. Henry V of England 
married Bonny Kate in the chateau; Charles VIII of 
France and Maximilian of Austria signed a treaty with- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


199 


in its walls; Francis I finished Notre-Dame of Senlis. 
The Duke of Bedford fought Joan of Arc there, and she 
was helped by the Marechal Rais, no other than Blue- 
beard; so ‘‘Sister Anne” must have gazed out from some 
neighbouring tower for the “cloud of dust in the distance.” 
Somewhere in the vast encircling forests the Babes in the 
Wood were buried by the birds, while the wicked uncle 
reigned in their father’s place at Senlis. In 1814 Prus- 
sian, Russian, and British soldiers marched through the 
town on their tramp to Paris. Cossacks and Highlanders 
were the “strangest sight” Senlis had ever seen, though it 
had seen many; but a hundred years later it was to see 
a stranger one yet. 

If ever a place looked made for peace, that place is 
Senlis, on its bright little river Nonette — child of the Oise 
— and in its lovely valley. That was what I said as we 
slowed down on the outskirts : but ah, how the thought of 
peace broke as we drove along the “kings’ highway” — the 
broad Rue de la Republique ! In an instant the drama of 
September 2nd — eve of the Marne battle — sprang to our 
eyes and knocked at our hearts. We could smell the 
smoke, and see the flames, and hear the shots, the cries 
of grief and rage, the far-off thunder of bridges blown up 
by the retreating French army. Suddenly we knew how 
the people of Senlis had suffered that day, and — strangely, 
horribly — how the Germans had felt. 

Senlis hadn’t realized — ^wouldn’t let itself realize— even 
during bombardment, what its fate might be. It had 
been spared, as an open town, in 1870; and since then, 
through long, prosperous years of peace a comfortable 
conviction had grown that only pleasant things could 


200 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


happen. Why, it was the place of pleasure, reaping a 
harvest of fame and money from its adventurous past! 
Tourists came from all the world over to put up at the 
Hotel du Grand Cerf, once the hunting lodge of kings. 
They came to loiter in narrow old streets whose very 
names were echoes of history; to study the ruins of the 
Roman arena and the ancient walls; to hunt in the forest, 
as royal men and ladies had hunted when stags and wild 
boar had been plentiful as foxes and rabbits; or to motor 
from one neighbouring chateau to another. Surely even 
Germans could not doom such a town to destruction. To 
be sure, some people did fly when a rabble of refugees from 
Compiegne poured past, hurrying south; and others fled 
from the bombardment when big guns, fired from Lucien 
Bonaparte’s old village of Chamant, struck the cathedral. 
But many stayed for duty’s sake, or because they be- 
lieved obstinately that to their bit of the Ile-de-France no 
tragedy could come. 

They didn’t know yet that Von Kluck and his men were 
drunk with victory, and that flaming towns were for the 
German army bonfires of triumph. They didn’t know that 
the Kaiser’s dinner was ordered in Paris for a certain date, 
and that at all costs Paris must be cowed to a speedy 
peace, lest the dinner be delayed. “Frightfulness” was 
the word of command, and famous old Senlis was to serve 
as a lesson to Paris. 

But somehow the German master of Senlis’s heart 
weakened when the crucial moment came. He was at 
the Hotel du Grand Cerf, where a dinner was being pre- 
pared by scared servants for thirty German oiBficers. The 
order was about to be signed when suddenly a cur6, small 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


201 


and pale, but lion-brave, entered the room. How he got 
in no one knew! Surprise held the general tongue-tied 
for three seconds; and a French cure is capable of much 
eloquence in three seconds. 

He gambled — if a cure may gamble! — on the chance of 
his man being Catholic — and he won. That is why (so 
they told us in the same room three years later) Senlis was 
struck with many sore wounds, but not exterminated; 
that is why only the Maire and a few citizens were mur- 
dered instead of all; that is why in some quarters of Senlis 
the people who have come back can still dream that noth- 
ing happened to their dear haunt of peace on Septem- 
ber 2, 1914. 

Even if Senlis had fallen utterly, before the Germans 
turned in their tracks, Paris would not have been “cowed.” 
As it was, Paris and all France were roused to a redoubled 
fury of resistance by the fate of the Senlis “hostages.” 
So these men did not die in vain. 

The scars of Senlis are still unhealed. Whole streets 
are blackened heaps of ruin, and there are things that 
“make you see red,” as Father Beckett growled. But 
the thing which left the clearest picture in my brain was a 
sight sweet as well as sad : a charming little chateau, ruined 
by fire, yet pathetically lovely in martyrdom; the green 
trellis still ornamenting its stained facade, a few autumn 
roses peeping with childlike curiosity into gaping win- 
dow-eyes; a silent old gardener raking the one patch of 
lawn buried under blackened tiles and tumbled bricks 
The man’s figure was bent, yet I felt that there was hope 
as well as loyalty in his work. “They will come back 
borne some day,” was the expression of that faithful back. 


202 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


In the exquisite beauty of the forest beyond Senlis there 
was still — for me — this note of hope. “Where beauty is, 
sadness cannot dwell for ever!” As we rushed along in 
the big car, the delicate gray trunks of clustering trees 
seemed to whirl round and round before our eyes, as in a 
votive dance of young priestesses. We saw bands of 
German prisoners toiling gnome-like in dim glades, but 
they didn’t make us sad again. Au contraire / We found 
poetical justice in the thought that they, the cruel de- 
stroyers of trees, must chop wood and pile faggots from 
dawn to dusk. 

So we came to Compiegne, where the French army has 
its headquarters in one of the most famous chateaux in 
the world. 


CHAPTER XX 


I T TOOK a mere glance (even if we hadn’t known 
beforehand) to see that noble Compiegne craved no 
Beckett charity, no American adoption. 

True, German ojQScers lived for twelve riotous days in the 
palace, in 1914, selecting for home use many of its treas- 
ures, and German “non-coms.” filled vans with rare 
antiques from the richest mansions; still, they had no 
time, or else no inclination, to disfigure the town. The 
most sensational souvenir of those days before the Marne 
battle is a couple of broken bridges across the Oise and 
Aisne, blown up by the French in the hour of their re- 
treat. But that strange sight didn’t break on our eyes 
as we entered Compiegne. We seemed to have been trans- 
ported by white magic from mystic forest depths to be 
plumped down suddenly in a city square, in front of a 
large, classical palace. It’s only the genie of motoring 
who can arrange these startling contrasts ! 

If we took Brian’s advice, and “played” that our autos 
were old-fashioned coaches; if we looked through, instead 
of at, the dozen military cars lined up at the palace gates; 
if we changed a few details of the soldiers’ uniforms, 
the gray chateau need not have been Army Headquarters 
in our fancy. For us, the Germans might cease from 
troubling and the war-weary be at rest, while we skipped 
back to any century we fancied. 

203 


204 


EVERYIVIAN’S LAND 


Of course, Louis XV, son-in-law of our old friend 
Stanislas of Lorraine, built the chateau; and Napoleon 
the Great added a wing in honour of his second bride, 
Marie Louise. But why be hampered by details like 
that? Charles V built a castle at this old Roman Com- 
pendium, on the very spot where all those centuries later 
Louis XV erected his Grecian fagades; and Henri of 
Navarre often came there, in his day. One of Henri’s 
best romances he owed to Compiegne; and while we wer-e 
having what was meant to be a hurried luncheon. Mother 
Beckett made Brian tell the story. You know Brian came 
to Compiegne before the war and painted in the palace 
park, where Napoleon I and Napoleon III used to give 
their fHes-champHres; and he says that the picture is clear 
as ever “behind his eyes.” 

Once upon a time, Henri was staying in the chdteau, 
very bored because weather had spoiled the hunting. 
Suddenly appeared the “handsomest young man of 
France,” the Due de Bellegarde, Henri’s equerry, who 
had been away on an adventure of love. Somehow, he’d 
contrived to meet Gabrielle d’Estrees, almost a child, but 
of dazzling beauty. She hid him for three days, and then, 
alas, a treacherous maid threatened to tell Gabrielle’s 
father. Bellegarde had to be smuggled out of the family 
castle — a rope and a high window. The tale amused 
Henri; and the girl’s portrait fired him. He couldn’t 
forget; and later, having finished some business at Senlis 
(part of which concerned a lady) he laid a plan to cut 
Bellegarde out. When the Equerry begged leave from 
Compiegne to visit Gabrielle again, Henri consented, on 
condition that he might be the duke’s companion. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


205 


Bellegarde had to agree; and Henri fell in love at sight 
with the golden hair, blue eyes, and rose-and-white skin 
of “Gaby.” She preferred Bellegarde to the long-nosed 
king; but the Bearnais was never one to take “no” for an 
answer. He went from Compiegne again and again 
to the forbidden castle, in peril of his life from Guise and 
the League. After a wild adventure, in disguise as a 
peasant with a bundle of straw on his head, his daring 
captured the girl’s fancy. She was his; and he was hers, 
writing sonnets to “Charmante Gabrielle,” making 
Marguerite furious by giving to the new love his wife’s 
own Abbey of St. Corneille, at Compiegne. (One can 
still see its ruins!) 

I said we meant to eat quickly and go for an afternoon 
of sightseeing — for early to-morrow (I’m writing late at 
night) we’re due at Noyon. But Brian remembered so 
many bits about Compiegne, that by tacit consent we 
lingered and listened. When he was here last, he did a 
sketch of Henri and Gabrielle hunting in the forest; 
“Gaby” pearl-fair in green satin, embroidered with silver; 
on her head the famous hat of velvet-like red taffetas, 
which cost Henri two hundred crowns. Perhaps she 
carried in her hand one of the handkerchiefs for which she 
paid what other women pay for dresses; but Brian"? 
sketches are too “impressionist” to show handkerchiefs! 
Anyhow, her hand was in the king’s, for that was her way 
of riding with her gray-clad lover; though when she went 
alone she rode boldly astride. Poor Henri couldn’t say 
nay to the becoming green satin and red hat, though he 
was hard up in those days. After paying a bill of Gaby’s, 
he asked his valet how many shirts and handkerchiefs 


m EVERYMAN’S LAND 

he had. “A dozen shirts, torn,” was the answer. “Hand- 
kerchiefs, five.” 

On the walls of the room where we ate hung beautiful 
o!d engravings of Napoleon I in his daily life at the 
Chateau of Compiegne. Napoleon receiving honoured 
guests in the vast Galerie des Fetes, with its polished floor 
and long line of immense windows; Napoleon and his 
bride in the Salon des Dames d’Honneur, among the 
ladies of Marie Louise; Napoleon listening wistfully — 
thinking maybe of lost Josephine — to a damsel at the 
harp, in the Salon de Musique; Marie Louise smirking 
against a background of teinture chinoise; Napoleon 
observing a tapestry battle of stags in the Salle des Cerfs; 
Napoleon on the magnificent terrasse giving a garden 
party; Napoleon walking with his generals along the 
Avenue des Beaux Monts, in the park. But these pic- 
tures rather teased than pleased us, because in war days 
only the army enters palace or park. 

Brian was luckier than the rest of us! He had been 
through the chateau and forgotten nothing. Best of all 
he had liked the bedchamber of Marie Antoinette, said to 
be haunted by her ghost, in hunting dress with a large 
hat and drooping plume. The Empress Eugenie, it 
seemed, had loved this room, and often entered it alone 
to dream of the past. Little could she have guessed then 
how near she would come to some such end as that fatal 
queen, second in beauty only to herself. 

Even if Julian O’Farrell’s significant glance hadn’t 
called my attention to his sister, I should have noticed 
how Dierdre lost her sulky look in listening to Brian. 

“He has something to say to me about those two when 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


207 


he gets a chance, and he wants me to know it now,” I 
thought. But I pretended to be absorbed in stories of 
the Second Empire. For we sat on and on at the table, 
putting off our visit to the ancient timbered houses and 
the monument of Jeanne d’Arc, and all the other things 
which called us away from those hotel windows. It 
seemed as if the heart of Compiegne, past and present, 
were hidden just behind that gray fagade of the palace 
across the square ! 

Of course, Jeanne was the “star” heroine of Compiegne, 
where she fought so bravely and was taken prisoner, and 
sold to the English by John of Luxembourg at a very 
cheap price. But, you know, she is the heroine of such 
lots of other places we have seen or will see, that we let 
her image fade for us behind the brilliant visions of Com- 
pi^gne’s pleasures. 

As a rule, old history has the lure of romance in it, and 
makes modern history seem dull in contrast. But such 
a gorgeous novel could be written about Second Empire 
days of Compiegne (if only there were a Dumas to write 
it) that I do think this town is an exception. 

Even “The Queen’s Necklace” couldn’t be more ex- 
citing than a story of Eugenie, with that “divinest 
beauty of all ages,” the Castiglione, as her rival! I 
don’t know how Dumas would begin it, but I would have 
the first scene at a house party of Louis Napoleon’s, in 
the palace at Compiegne, after he had revived the old 
custom of the Royal Hunt: Napoleon, already falling in 
love, but hesitating, anxious to see how the Spanish girl 
would bear herself among the aristocratic charmers of 
the Court, whether she could hold her own as a huntress, 


208 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


as in a ballroom. I’d show her making a sensation by 
her horsemanship and beauty. Then I’d take her through 
the years, till the dazzling Florentine came to trouble her 
peace, the adored, yet disappointed divinity who cried, 
“If my mother had brought me to France instead of 
marrying me to Castiglione, an Italian, not a Spaniard, 
would have shared the throne with Napoleon, and there 
would have been no Franco-Prussian War ! ” 

What a brilliant background Compiegne of those days 
would make for that pair, the beautiful young Empress 
and the more beautiful Countess! — Compiegne when the 
palace was crowded with the flower of Europe, when great 
princes and brave soldiers romped through children’s 
games with lovely ladies, if rain spoiled the hunting; when 
Highland nobles brought their pipers, and everyone danced 
the wildest reels, if there were time to spare from private 
theatricals and tableaux vivants I I think I would make my 
story end, though, not there, but far away; the Castiglione 
lying dead, with youth and beauty gone, dressed by her 
last request in a certain gown she had worn on a certain 
night at Compiegne, never to be forgotten. 

When at last we did go out to walk and see the wonder- 
ful timbered houses and the blown-up bridges, what I 
had expected to happen did happen: Julian O’Farrell con- 
trived to separate me from the others. 

“Haven’t I been clever?” he asked, with his smile of a 
naughty child. 

“So far as I know of you,” I answered, “you are always 
clever.” 

“That’s the first compliment you’ve ever paid me! 
Thanks all the same, though I’d be the opposite of clever 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


209 


if I thought you wanted me to be flattered. You’re clever, 
too, so of course you know what I mean as well as I 
know myself. Perhaps you thought I was being clever on 
the sly. But I’m above that. Haven’t I always showed 
you my cards, trumps and joker and all? ” 

“You’ve shown me how the knave can take a trick!” 

He laughed. “History repeating itself! The Queen 
of Hearts, you remember — and the Knave of — Spades, 
wasn’t it? I wish it were diamonds instead: but maybe 
his spade will dig up a few sparklers in the end. I’ve got 
a splendid plan brewing. But that isn’t what I want to 
talk about just now. In fact, I dont want to talk about 
it — ^yet! You’re not going to admit that you see the 
results of my cleverness, or that you’d understand them if 
you did see. So I’ll just wave them under your darling 
nose.” 

It would have been absurd to say: “How dare you call 
my nose a darling? ” so I said nothing at all. 

“You saw it was a plot, getting Brian to go to Paris 
with us,” he went on. “I saw that you saw it. But I 
wasn’t sure and I’m not sure now, if you realized its 
design, as the villain of the piece would remark.” 

“ You ought to know what he’d remark.” 

“I do, dear villainess! I was going to say, ‘Sister 
Villainess,’ but I wouldn’t have you for a sister at any 
price. I’ve cast you for a different part. You may have 
imagined that Dare and I were just grabbing your brother 
to spite you, and show what we could do with him.” 

“I did imagine that!” 

“Wrong! Guess again. Or no — ^you needn’t. We 
may be interrupted any minute. To save time I’ll 


210 EVEKYMAN’S LAND 

explain my bag of tricks. Dare wasn’t in on that hand 
of mine.” 

“Indeed?” 

“You don’t believe me? That shows you’re no judge 
of character. Dare adores her Jule, and what he wants 
her to do she does; but I told you she was no actress. 
She can’t act much better off the stage than on. I 
wouldn’t trust her to create the part of the ^Yhite Cat, let 
alone that of Wily Vivien. She gets along all right if 
she can just keep still and sulk and act the Stormy Petrel. 
I should have pulled her through on those lines if she’d been 
obliged to play Jim Beckett’s broken-hearted fiancee. 
But to do the siren with your brother — ^no, she wouldn’t 
be equal to that, even to please me: couldn’t get it across 
the footlights. I had to win her to Brian as well as win 
Brian to me. I hope you don’t mind my calling him by 
his Christian name ? He says I may . ” 

“'\Wiy did you want to win Miss O’Farrell to my 
brother?” 

“You don’t know? You’ll have to go down a place 
lower in this class ! She couldn’t make Brian really like 
her, unless she liked him. At first — though I knew better 
— she stuck it out that Brian was only a kind of decoy 

duck for you with the Becketts ” 

“Oh!” 

“Please don’t look at me as if you were biting a lemon. 
1 didn’t think so. And Dare doesn’t now.” 

“How sweet of her ! ” 

“She’s turning sweet. That’s partly what I was after. 
I wormed myself into your brother’s affections, to entice 
him to Paris. I wanted Dare to learn that her instinct 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


211 


about him was right; her instinct was always defending 
him against what she thought was her reason and common 
sense. Now, she sees that he’s genuine, and she’s secretly 
letting herself go — admiring him and wondering at him to 
make up for her injustice.” 

“Are you telling all this to disarm me?'' 

“Not exactly. I’m telling you because I was sure you’d 
find out soon what’s going on, and because I thought an 
open policy best. As it is, you can’t say I haven’t played 
fair from the word go.” 

“I wish,” I cried out, “that the word was ‘go’!” 

“You’re not very kind, my dear.” 

“Why should I be kind?” 

“Because I’m the stick of your rocket. You can’t 
soar without me. And because I love you such a lot.” 

“You!” 

“Yes, I, me, Julian O’Farrell: Giulio di Napoli. 
Haven’t I sacrificed my prospects and my sister’s pros- 
pects rather than throw you to the lions? Didn’t I waste 
those perfectly good snapshots? Didn’t I sit tight, pro- 
tecting you silently, letting you have all I’d expected to 
have for myself and Dare?” 

I gasped. To speak was beyond my powers just then. 

“I know what you’d like to say,” Julian explained me 
to myself. “You’d love to say: ‘The d — d cheek of the 
man! It’s rich!' Well, it is rich. And I mean to be 
rich to match. That’s in my plan. And so are you in 
it. Practically you are the plan. To carry it out calmly, 
without ructions and feathers flying, I put your brother 
and my sister in the way of falling in love. Dare didn’t 
want to join the Beckett party and didn’t want to stay 


212 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


with it. Now, she does want to stay. Brian distrusted 
me and was intrigued by Dare. Now, he gives me the 

benefit of the doubt. And he has no doubts of her 

That’s a beautiful timbered house, isn’t it, Mr. Beckett? 
Yes, I was just telling Miss O’Malley that this place 
seems to me the best one we’ve visited yet. I shall never 
forget it, or the circumstances of seeing it, shall you. 
Miss O’Malley? Don’t you think, sir, she might let me 
call her ‘Mary,’ now we all know each other so well? I’m 
‘Julian’ to her brother and he’s ‘Brian’ to me.” 

“I certainly do think she might,” said Father Beckett, 
with that slow, pleasant smile which Jim inherited from 
him. 


CHAPTER XXI 


I T’S late at night again — ^no, early to-morrow morning, 
just about the hour when to-morrow’s war-bread is 
being baked by to-night’s war-bakers. But it’s good 
to burn the midnight electricityj because my body and 
brain are feeling electric. 

We have had the most astonishing day ! 

Of course, I expected that, because we were going to 
Noyonj and I evacuated all unneeded thoughts and im- 
pressions (for instance, those concerning the O’Farrells) 
to make room for a crowd of new ones, as we did at the 
Hopital des Epidemies with convalescents, for an incoming 
batch of patients. But I didn’t count on private, personal 
emotions — unless we blundered into an air raid somewhere ! 

You remember those authors we met once, who write 
together — the Sandersons — and how they said if they 
ever dared put a real incident in a book, people picked out 
that one as impossible? Well, this evening just past 
reminded me of the Sandersons. We spent it at the War 
Correspondents’ Chateau, not far out of Compiegne: that 
is, we spent it there if it was real, and not a dream. 

I am the only one in Mother Beckett’s confidence — I 
mean, about her health. Even her husband doesn’t know 
how this trip strains her endurance, physical and mental. 
Indeed; he’s the very one who mustnH know. It’s agreed 
21S 


214 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


between us that, if she feels hopelessly unfit for any excur- 
sion, I shall put on invalid airs and she will stop at home 
to keep me company. Thus will be avoided all danger of 
Eather Beckett suspecting the weakness she hides. But 
you can imagine. Padre, loiowing me as you do, how 
frightened I was to-day — our morning for Noyon — lest 
she should give the signal. I felt I simply couldn’t hear 
to miss Noyon. No use telling myself I shall feel exactly 
the same about Soissons to-morrov/, and Roye and Ham 
and Chauny and various others the day after. My 
reason couldn’t detach itself at that instant from Noyon. 

Our daily programme as now arranged is : Me to knock 
at Mother Beekett’s door half an hour before starting- 
time. If she’s fearing a collapse, she is to exclaim: “My 
child, how pale you are!” or some other criticism of my 
complexion. Then I’m to play up, replying: “I do feel 
under the weather.” Whereupon it’s easy for her to 
say : “You must stop in the hotel and rest. I’ll stay with 
you.” 

To my joy, the greeting this morning was: “My dear, 
you look fresh as a rose!” 

I didn’t feel it; for you know I wrote late to you. And 
at last in bed, I disobeyed your advice about never worry- 
ing: I worried quite a lot over Brian and Dierdre O’Far- 
rell; my having led him into a trap, when above all things 
I wanted his happiness and health. I could well have 
passed as pale : but I was so pleased with the secret signal 
that I braced up and bloomed again. 

We had to start early, beeause there was a good deal to 
do in the day; and we were supposed to return early, too, 
for a rest, as there’s the great adventure of Soissons before 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


215 


us to-morrow. The Correspondents’ Chateau wasn’t on 
our list: that was an accident, though now it seems as if 
the whole trip would have been worth while if only to 
lead up to that ‘‘ accident ! ” 

There were several ways we could have taken to Noyon, 
but we took the way by Dives and Lassigny. We shall 
have chances for other roads, because, to see various 
places we mean to visit, we shall go through Noyon 
again. 

Once upon a time, before the Germans came. Dives 
had a lovely chateau, part of it very old, with a round tur- 
ret under a tall pointed hat; the other part comparatively 
young — as young as the Renaissance — and all built of 
that pale, rose-pink colour which most chateaux of this 
forestland, and this Ile-de-France used to wear in happy 
days before they put on smoke-stained mourning. 

Now, instead of its proud chateau. Dives has a ruin 
even more lovely, though infinitely sad. 

As for Lassigny, it was battered to death: yet I think 
it was glad to die, because the Germans had turned it into 
a fortress, and they had to be shelled out by the French. 
Poor little Lassigny! It must have had what the French 
call ^'une heautS coquette,^' and the Germans, it seemed, 
were loth to leave. When they found that they must go, 
and in haste, they boiled with rage. Not only did they 
blow up all that was left in the village, but they blew up 
the trees of the surrounding orchards. They had not the 
excuse for this that they needed the trees to bar the way 
of the pursuing French army. Such trees as they felled 
across the road were the big trees of the forest. Their 
destruction of the young fruit trees was just a slaughter of 


216 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


innocents; and I’ve never hated war, Padre, as I hated 
it to-day — above all, German methods of making war. 
Even the countless graves on the battle-fields do not look 
so sad as those actes of murdered trees: blown-up trees, 
chopped-down trees, trees gashed to death with axes, 
trees that strove with all the strength of Nature to live, 
putting forth leaves and blossoms as their life blood 
emptied from their veins. 

The graves of dead soldiers do not, somehow, look 
utterly sad. Their little fiags stir triumphantly in the 
breeze, as if waved by unseen hands. The caps that mark 
the mounds seem to be on the heads of men invisible, 
under the earth, standing at the salute, saying to those 
who pass: “There is no death! Keep up your hearts, 
and follow the example we have set.” The souls of those 
who left their bodies on these battlefields march on, bearing 
torches that have lit the courage of the world, with a light 
that can never fail. But the poor trees, so dear to France, 
giving life as a mother gives milk to her child ! — they died 
to serve no end save cruelty. 

The sight of them made me furious, and I glared like a 
basilisk at any German prisoners we saw working along the 
good, newly made white road. On their green trousers 
were large letters, “P. G.” for “Prisonnier de Guerre”; 
and I snapped out as we passed a group, “It needs only 
an I between the P and the G to make it perfect /” 

One man must have heard, and understood English, 
for he glanced up with a start. I was sorry then, for it 
was like hitting a fallen enemy. As he had what would 
have seemed a good face if he’d been British or French, 
perhaps he was one of those who wrote home that the 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


217 


killing of trees in France “will be a shame to Germany 
till the end of time.” 

Only a few days ago Brian learned by heart a poem I 
read aloud, a poem called “Les Arbres Coupes,” by 
Edmond Rostand. Teaching Brian, I found I had 
learned it myself. 

Chacun de nos soldats eut son cri de souffrance 
Devant ces arbres morts qui jonchaient les terrains: 

“ Les pechers ! ” criaient ceux de ITle-de-France; 

“ Et les mirabelliers ! ” crierent les Lorrains. 

Soldats bleus demeures paysans sous vos casques. 

Quels poings noueux et noirs vers le nord vous tendiez ! 

“ Les cerisiers ! ” criaient avec fureur les Basques; 

E t ceux du Rousillon criaient : ‘ ‘ Les amandiers ! ’ * 

Devant les arbres morts de I’Aisne ou de la Somme, 

Chacun se retrouva Breton ou Limousin. 

“Les pommiers ! ” criaient ceux du pays de la pomme; 

“ Les vignes ! ” criaient ceux du pays raisin. 

Ainsi vous disiez tous le climat dont vous etes, 

Devant ces arbres morts que vous consideriez, 

— Et moi, voyant tomber tant de jeunes poetes, 

Helas, combien de fois j’ai crie : “Les lauriers ! ” 

I love it. Yet I don’t quite agree with the beautiful 
turning at the end, because the laurels of the soldier-poets 
aren’t really dead, nor can they ever die. Even some of 
the trees which the Boches meant to kill would not be 
conquered by Germans or death. Many of them, cut 
almost level with the ground, continued to live, spouting 


218 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


leaves close to earth as a fountain spouts water when its 
jet has been turned low. All the victims that could be 
saved have been saved by the French, carefully, scientifi- 
cally bandaged like wounded soldiers: and the Becketts 
talked eagerly of giving money — much money — to Ameri- 
can societies that, with the British, are aiding France to 
make her fair land bloom again. Mother Beckett became 
quite inventive and excited, planning to start “instruc- 
tion farms,” with a fund in honour of Jim. Seeds and 
slips and tools and teachers should all be imported from 
California. Oh, it would be wonderful ! And how thank- 
ful she and Father were that they had Brian and Molly 
to help make the plan come true! I shouldn’t have liked 
to catch Julian O’Farrell’s eye just then. 

All the way was haunted by the tragedy of trees, not 
only the tragedy of orchards, and of the roadside giants 
that once had shaded the straight avenues, but the martyr- 
dom of trees in the great dark forests — oaks and elms and 
beeches. At first glance these woods, France’s shield 
against her enemies — rose still and beautiful, like mystic 
abodes of peace, against the pale horizon. But a searching 
gaze showed how they had suffered. For every trio of 
living trees there seemed to be one corpse, shattered by 
bombs, or blasted by evil gas. The sight of them struck 
at the heart: yet they were heroes, as well as martyrs, I 
said to myself. They had truly died for France, to save 
France. And as I thought this, I knew that if I were a 
poet, beautiful words would come at my call, to clothe 
my fancy about the forests. 

I wanted the right words so much that it was pain when 
they wouldn’t answer my wish, for I seemed to bear only a 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 219 

faint, far-off echo of some fine strain of music, whose real 
notes I failed to catch. 

Always forests have fascinated me; sweet, fairy-peopled 
groves of my native island, and emerald-lit beech woods of 
England. But I never felt the grand meaning of forests as 
I felt them to-day, in this ravaged and tortured land. 
I could have cried out to them: “Oh, you forests of 
France, what a part you’ve played in the history of wars ! 
How wise and brave of you to stand in unbroken line, a 
rampart protecting your country’s frontiers, through 
the ages. Forests, you are bands of soldiers, in armour of 
wood, and you, too, like your human brothers, have hearts 
that beat and veins that bleed for France! You are 
soldiers, and you are fortresses — ^Nature’s fortresses 
stronger than all modern inventions. You are fortresses 
to fight in; you are shelters from air-pirates, you hide 
cannon; you give shelter to your fighting countrymen 
from rain and heat. You delay the enemy; you mislead 
him, you drive him back. When you die, deserted 
by the birds and all your hidden furred and feathered 
children, you give yourselves — give, give to the last! 
Your wood strengthens the trenches, or burns to warm the 
freezing poilus. Brave forests, pathetic forests! I hear 
you defy the enemy in your hour of death: “Strike us, 
kill us. Still you shall never pass ! ” 

We had felt that we knew something of the war-zone 
after Lorraine; but there the great battles had all been 
fought in 1914, when the world was young. Here, it 
seemed as if the earth must still be hot from the feet of 
retreating Germans. 

The whole landscape was pitted with shell-holes,, and 


220] EVERYMAN’S LAND^ 

spider-webbed with barbed wire. The three lines of 
French trenches we passed might, from their look, have 
been manned yesterday. Piled along the neat new road 
were bombs for aviators to drop ; queer, fish-shaped things, 
and still queerer cages they had been in. There were long, 
low sheds for fodder. At each turn was the warning 
word, Convois.’* The poor houses of such villages as 
continued to exist were numbered, for the first time in their 
humble lives, because they were needed for military 
lodgings. Notices in the German language were hardly 
effaced from walls of half -ruined buildings. They had been 
partly rubbed out, one could see, but the ugly German 
words survived, strong and black as a stain on one’s past. 
Huge rounds of barbed wire which had been brought, and 
never used, were stacked by the roadside, and there were 
long lines of trench-furniture the enemy had had to aban- 
don in flight, or leave in dug-outs: rough tables, chairs, 
rusty cooking-stoves, pots, pans, petrol tins, and broken 
dishes: even lamps, torn books, and a few particularly 
ugly blue vases for flowers. They must have been made 
in Germany, I knew ! 

Wattled screens against enemy fire still protected the 
road, and here and there was a “camouflage” canopy for a 
big gun. The roofs of beautiful old farmhouses were 
crushed in, as if tons of rock had fallen on them: and the 
moss which once had decked their ancient tiles with vel- 
vet had withered, turning a curious rust colour, like dried 
blood. Young trees with their throats cut were bandaged 
up with torn linen and bagging on which German printed 
words were dimly legible. It would have been a scene of 
unmitigated grimness, save for last summer’s enterprising 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 221 

grass and flowers, which autumn, kinder than war, had 
not killed. 

Late roses and early chrysanthemums grew in the 
gardens of broken, deserted cottages, as if the flowers 
yearned to comfort the wounded walls with soft caresses, 
innocent as the touch of children. On the burned fagades 
of houses, trellised fruit-trees clung, some dead — mere 
black pencillings sketched on brick or plaster — ^but now 
and then one was living still, like a beautiful young Maz^ 
eppa, bound to a dead steed. 

So we arrived at Noyon, less than two hours by car 
from Compiegne. The nearness of it to the heart of 
France struck me suddenly. I could hear the echo of 
sad voices curbing the optimists: “The Germans are still 
at Noyon!” 

Well — they are not at Noyon now. They’ve been gone 
for many moons. Yet there’s a look on the faces of the 
people in the town — a look when they come to the windows 
or doors of their houses, or when they hear a sudden noise 
in the street — which makes those moons seem never to 
have waned. 

Washington has adopted Noyon, so the Becketts could 
not offer any great public charity, but they could sprinkle 
about a few private good deeds, in remembrance of Jim, 
who loved the place, as he loved all the Ile-de-France. 
One of Mother Beckett’s most valued letters from “Jim- 
on-his- travels” (as she always says) is from Noyon, and 
she was so bent on reading it aloud to us, as we drove 
slowly — almost reverently — into the town, that she 
wouldn’t look (I believe she even grudged our looking!) 
at the fagade of the far-famed Hotel de Ville, until she’d 


222 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


come to the end of the last page. She seemed to think 
that to look up prematurely would be like wanting to see 
the stage before the curtain rose on the play ! 

I loved her for it — ^we all loved her — and obeyed as far 
as possible. But one couldn’t shut one’s eyes to the 
Stars and Stripes that flapped on the marvellously ornate 
front of the old building — flapped like the wings of the 
American Eagle that has flown across the Atlantic to 
help save France. 

Jim — a son of the Eagle — ^who gave his life for this land 
and for liberty, would have felt proud of that flag, I 
think, if he could have seen it to-day: for because she 
is the adopted child of Washington, Noyon “stars” the 
emblem of her American mother. She hangs out no 
other flag — not even that of France — on the Hotel de 
Ville. Maybe she’ll give her own colours a place there 
later, but at this moment the Star Spangled Banner floats 
alone in its glory. 

No nice, normal-minded person could remember, or 
morbidly want to remember, the name unkindly given 
by Julius Caesar to Noyon, when he had besieged it. I 
can imagine even Charlemagne waving that cumbrous 
label impatiently aside, though Noyon mixed with Laon 
was his first capital. “Noviodunum Belgarum it may 
have been” (I dare say he said). “But 7’m going to call 
it Noyon ! ” 

He was crowned king of Austria in Noyon cathedral — 
an even older one than the cathedral of to-day, which the 
Germans have generously omitted to destroy, merely 
stealing all its treasures! But I feel sure he doesn’t feel 
Austrian in these days, if he is looking down over the 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


223 


“Blessed Damosers” shoulder, to see what’s going on 
here below. He belonged really to the whole world 
Why, didn’t that fairy-story king, Haroun al Raschid, 
send him from Bagdad the “keys of the tomb of Christ,” 
as Chief of the Christian World? They say his ghost 
haunts Noyon, and was always there whenever a king was 
crowned, or elected — as Hugh Capet was. Perhaps it 
may have been Charlemagne in the spirit who persuaded 
the Germans to their great retreat from the Noyon front 
this last spring of 1917 ! ” 

Coming into the Place, and stopping in front of the 
Hotel de Ville, gave me the oddest sense of unreality, 
because, when we were in Paris the other day, I saw the 
scene in a moving picture: the first joyful entry of the 
French soldiers into the town, when the Germans had 
cleared out. I could hardly believe that I wasn’t just a 
figure flickering across a screen, and that the film wouldn’t 
hurry me along somewhere else, whether I wanted to go or 
not. 

There were the venerable houses with the steep slate 
roofs, and singularly intelligent-looking windows, whose 
bright panes seemed to twinkle with knowledge of what 
they had seen during these dreadful eighteen months of 
German occupation. There were the odd, unfinished 
towers of the cruciform cathedral — quaint towers, topped 
with wood and pointed spirelets — soaring into the sky 
above the gray colony of clustered roofs. There was the 
cobbled pavement, glittering like masses of broken glass, 
after a shower of rain just past; and even more interesting 
than any of these was the fantastically carved fagade of 
the Hotel de Ville, which has lured thousands of tourists 


224 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


to Noyon in days of peace. Who knows but they have 
been coming ever since 1532, when it was finished 

At first sight, we should never have guessed what Noyon 
had suffered from the Germans. It was only after wander- 
ing through the splendid old cathedral of Notre-Dame, 
stripped of everything worth stealing, and going from 
street to street (we paused a long time in the one where 
Calvin was born, a disagreeable, but I suppose useful, 
man !) that we began to realize the slow torture inflicted by 
the Germans. Of course, “lessons” had to be taught. 
RebelHous persons had to be “punished.” Nothing but 
justice had been done upon the unjust by their just 
conquerors. And oh, how thorough and painstaking they 
were in its execution ! 

As they’d destroyed all surrounding cities and villages, 
they had to put the “evacuated” inhabitants somewhere 
(those they couldn’t use as slaves to work in Germany), so 
they herded the people by the thousand into Noyon. 
That place had to be spared for the Germans themselves 
to live in, being bigger and more comfortable than others 
in the neighbourhood; so it was well to have as many of 
the conquered as possible interned under their own sharp 
eyes. Noyon was “home” to six thousand souls before 
the war. After the Germans marched in, it had to hold 
ten thousand. But a little more room in the houses was 
thriftily obtained by annexing all the furniture, even beds. 
Tables and chairs they took, too, and stoves, and cooking 
utensils, which left the houses conveniently empty, to be 
shared by families from Roye, and Nesle, and Ham, and 
Chaimy — oh, so many other towns and hamlets, that one 
loses count in trying to remember! 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


225 


How the people lived, they hardly know now, in looking 
back, some of them told us, as we walked about with a 
French officer who was our guide. Eighteen months of 
it! Summer wasn’t quite so bad. One can always bear 
hardships when weather, at least, is kind. But the win- 
ters! It is those winters that scarcely bear thinking of, 
even now. 

No lights were allowed after dark. All doors must be 
left open, for the German military police to walk in at 
any hour of the night, to see what mischief was brewing 
in the happy families caged together. There was no heat- 
ing, and often no fire for cooking, consequently such food 
as there was had to be eaten cold. No nose must be 
shown out of doors imless with a special permit, so to 
speak, displayed on the end of it. Not that there was 
much incentive to go out, as all business was stopped, and 
all shops closed. Without ‘'le Comite Americairiy’^ 
thousands would have starved, so it was lucky for Noyon 
that the United States was neutral then ! 

We spent hours seeing things, and talking to people — 
old people, and children, and soldiers — each one with a 
new side of the great story to tell, as if each had been 
weaving a few inches of some wonderful, historic piece of 
tapestry, small in itself, but essential to the pattern. 
Then we started for home — I mean Compiegne — by a 
different way; the way of Carlepont, named after Charle- 
magne, because it is supposed that he was born there. 

The forest was even more lovable than before, a younger 
forest: fairylike in beauty as a rainbow, in its splashed 
gold and red, and green and violet and orange of autumn. 
The violet was “atmosphere,” but it was as much a part 


226 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


of the forest as the leaves, or the dehcate trunks dim as 
ghosts in shadow, bright as organ-pipes where sun touched 
them. Out from the depths came sweet, mysterious 
breaths, and whispers like prophecies of peace. But to 
this region of romance there were sharp contrasts. Not 
even dreams have sharper ones ! German trenches, 
chopped into blackened wastes that once were farmlands, 
and barbed wire wriggling like snake-skeletons across 
dreary fields. 

We got out of our cars, and went into the trenches, 
thinking thoughts unspeakable. Long ago as the Germans 
had vanished, and every corner had been searched, our 
officer warned us not to pick up “souvenirs.” Some in- 
fernal machine might have been missed in the search and 
nothing was to be trusted — ^no, not even a bit of innocent- 
looking lead pencil. 

They were trenches made to live in, these! They had 
been walled with stones from ruined farmhouses. The 
“dug-outs” were super-dug-outs. We saw concealed 
cupolas for machine-guns, and *'les officiers hoches'* had 
had a neat system of douches. 

There was no need to worry that Brian might stumble 
or fall in the slippery labyrinths we travelled, for he had 
Dierdre O’Farrell as guide. I’m afraid I knew what it 
was to be jealous: and this new gnawing pain is perhaps 
meant to be one of my punishments. Of course it’s no 
more than I deserve. But that Brian should be chosen as 
the instrument, all unknowingly, and happily — that hurts! 

It was just as we were close to Compiegne, not twenty 
painutes (in motor talk) outside the town, that the “acci- 
dent” happened. 


CHAPTER XXII 


FIRST it seemed an ordinary, commonplace 

IJL accident. A loud report like a pistol shot: a fat 
Jk, tire down on our car : that was all. 

We stopped, and the little taxi-cab, tagging on behind 
like a small dog after a big one, halted in sympathy. 
Julian OTarrell jumped out to help Morel, our one- 
legged chauffeur, as he always does if anything happens, 
just to remind the Becketts how kind and indispensable 
he is. We knew that we should be hung up for a good 
twenty minutes, so the whole party, with the exception of 
Mother Beckett and me, deserted the cars. Brian was 
with Dierdre. He had no need of his sister; so I was free 
to stop with the little old lady, who whispered in my ear 
that she was tired. 

Father Beckett and Julian watched Morel, giving him a 
word or a hand now and then. Dierdre and Brian saun- 
tered away, deep in argument over Irish politics (it’s 
come to that between them: and Dierdre actually Zistos to 
Brian!). Mother Beckett drifted into talk of Jim, as she 
loves to do with me, and I wandered, hand in hand with 
her, back into his childhood. Blue dusk was falling 
like a rain of dead violets — ^just that peculiar, faded blue; 
and as I was absorbed in the tale of a nursery fire (Jim, 
at six, playing the hero) I had no eyes for scenery. I 
was but vaguely aware that not far off loomed a gateway, 
227 


228 


eve:ryman’s land 

adorned with a figure of the Virgin. A curving avenue 
led to shadowy, neglected lawns, dimly suggesting some 
faded romance of history. 

Presently, from between the open gates came a man in 
khaki, accompanied by a tall, slim, and graceful dog. It 
was he, not the man, that caught my eye and for an in- 
stant snatched my thought from Little Boy Jim rescuing a 
rocking-horse at the risk of his life. He was a police dog 
with the dignity of a prince and the lightness of a plume. 

“Lovely creature!” I said to myself, as he and the 
khaki man swung toward us down the road. And I 
wished that Brian could see him, for the dog Brian loved 
and lost at the Front was a Belgian police dog. 

Perhaps, Padre, Brian wrote you about his wonderful 
pet, that he thought worthy to name after the dog-star 
Sirius. I’ve forgotten to ask if he did write; but I seldom 
had a letter from him from the trenches that didn’t mention 
Sirius. Everyone seemed to adore the dog, which developed 
into a regimental mascot. What his early history was can 
never be known: but Brian rescued him from a burning 
chateau in Belgium, just as Jim rescued the rocking-horse 
of Mother Beckett’s nursery story, though with rather 
more risk! It was a chateau where some hidden tragedy 
must have been enacted, because the Germans took pos- 
session of it with the family still there — such of the 
family as wasn’t fighting: two young married women, 
sisters, wives of brothers. But when the Germans ran 
before the British, and fired the chateau as they went, 
not a creature living or dead was left in the house — except 
the dog — and nothing has ever been heard of the sisters. 

The fire was raging so fiercely when Brian’s regiment 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


arrived that no one would have ventured into the house 
if a dog hadn’t been heard to howl. You know how Brian 
loves dogs. When he found that the sound came from a 
certain room on the groimd floor, he determined to get in 
somehow. Masses of ivy cloaked that side of the chateau. 
It was beginning to crackle with fire that flamed out from 
other windows, but Brian climbed the thick, rope-like 
stems, hundreds of years old, and smashed his way through 
the window. The room was filling with smoke. The 
dog’s voice was choked. Brian’s eyes streamed, but he 
wouldn’t give up. Only by crawling along the floor imder 
the smoke curtain could he get at the dog. Somebody 
had meant to murder the animal, for he had been chained 
to the leg of a table. 

Brian wrote that the dog realized his danger, and was 
grateful as a human being to his rescuer. His worship of 
Brian was pathetic. He seemed to care for no one else, 
though he was too fine a gentleman not to be polite to all — 
all, that is, except Germans. They never dared let him 
loose when prisoners were about. The sight of a gray- 
green uniform was to that dog what a red rag is to a bull. 
For him some horror was associated with it — a horror which 
must remain a mystery for us. 

The day Brian lost his eyesight he lost Sirius. When 
he came back to consciousness, only to learn th^t he was 
blind, his first thought was of his friend. No one knew 
what had happened to the dog. The chances seemed to 
be that the shell which had buried Brian had buried 
Sirius, too; but Brian wouldn’t believe this. Somehow the 
dog would have contrived to escape. I had to promise 
that, whenever I happened to see a dark gray, almost black 


230 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Belgian police dog of beautiful shape, I would call “Sirius” 
to see if he answered. 

More than once since this trip began I’ve called “Sir- 
ius!” to police dogs, not knowing whether they were Bel- 
gian, German, or Dutch, and they have answered only 
with glances of superb scorn. This time I hesitated. 
The mental picture I saw of myself — a vague young wo- 
man, seated in an automobile stranded by the roadside, 
trying to lure away the dog of a strange man — was dis- 
concerting. While I debated whether to break my 
promise or behave like a wild school girl, the animal 
paused in his listless trot. He stopped, as if he’d been 
struck by an unseen bullet, quivered all over, and shot 
past us like a torpedo. A minute later I heard a tumultu- 
ous barking — a barking as if the gates of a dog’s heaven 
had suddenly opened. 

I sprang up in the car, and turning round, knelt on the 
seat to see what was going on behind us. Far away were 
Brian and Dierdre. And oh. Padre, I can never dislike 
that girl again! I apologize for everything I ever said 
against her. She saw that great police dog making for 
blind Brian. And you know, a police dog can look for- 
midable as a panther. She took no time to think, though 
the idea might have sprung to her mind that the creature 
was mad. She simply threw herself in front of Brian. It 
was an offer of her life for his. 

I could do nothing, of course. I was too far off. I’m 
not a screaming girl, but I’m afraid I did give a shriek, for 
Mother Beckett started up, and cried out: “What’s the 
matter?” 

I didn’t answer her. I hardly heard. I forgot everyone 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


231 


except Brian and that girl. It was only when the thing 
was over, and we were all talking at once, that I realized 
how the others had shared my fright. 

Perhaps Brian recognized the dog’s bark at a distance, 
for he says a dog’s voice is individual as a man’s. Or his 
I instinct — made magically keen by his blindness — told him 
in a flash of inspiration what his eyes couldn’t see. Any- 
how, he knew that Dierdre was in danger, and almost flung 
her behind him. He was just in time to save her from 
being thrown down by the dog, who hurled himself like a 
young avalanche at Brian. To those who had no clue 
to the truth, it must have seemed that the animal was 
mad. Julian, and Father Beckett, and the kliaki man 
rushed to the rescue, only to see the dog and Brian in 
each other’s arms, the creature licking Brian’s face, 
1 laughing and crying at the same time — which you know. 
Padre, a dog frantic with joy at sight of a long-lost master 
can do perfectly well! It seems too melodramatic to 
be true, but it is true : the dog was Sirius. 

' You’ll think now that this is the “astonishing thing” 

I which would — I said — have made this whole trip worth 
I while. But no : the thing I meant has little or nothing to 
; do with the finding of Sirius. 

! Even Mother Beckett could sit still no longer. She 
had to be helped out of the car by me to join the group 
round Brian and the dog. She took my arm, and I 
matched my steps to her tiny trot, though I pined to 
sprint! We met Father Beckett coming back with apolo- 
gies for his one minute of forgetfulness. The first time in 
years, I should think, that he had forgotten his wife for 
sixty whole seconds ! 


232 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“It’s like something in a story or a play,” he panted, 
out of breath. “This is Brian’s lost dog. You’ve heard 
him talk of Sirius, my dear. There can be no doubt 
it’s the same animal! The man who thought he was its 
master admits that. And guess who he is — the man, not 
the dog.” 

Mother Beckett reminded her husband that never had 
she succeeded in a guess. But she was saved trying 
by the arrival of the man in khaki who, having abandoned 
his dog — or being abandoned by it — ^had followed Mr. 
Beckett. 

“’V\Tiy, Jack Curtis /” gasped the little old lady. “It 
can’t be you ! ” 

“I guess it’s nobody else,” laughed a soldierly fellow, 
with the blackest eyes and whitest teeth imaginable. 
“I’m doing the war for the New York Record — staying 
here at the chateau of Royalieu with the British cor- 
respondents for the French front.” 

I longed to get to Brian and be introduced to Sirius, but 
Mother Beckett caught my arm. “Mary, dear,” she 
cooed, “ I’d like you and Mr. Curtis to meet. Jack, this 
is Miss O’Malley, who would have been our Jim’s wife if 
he’d lived. And Mary, this is one of Jim’s classmates at 
college; a very good friend.” 

The khaki young man (American khaki) held out his 
hand and I put mine into it. He stared at me — a pleas- 
ant, sympathetic, and not unadmiring stare — peering 
nearsightedly through the twilight. 

“ So Jim found you again, after all? ” he asked, in a quiet, 
low voice, not utterly unlike Jim’s own. Men of the 
same university do speak alike all over the world. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


233 


“1 — don’t quite understand,” I stammered. When 
any sudden question about Jim is flung at me before his 
parents, I’m always a little scared ! 

“Jim and I had a bet,” Mr. Curtis explained, “that he 
couldn’t travel incog,, through Europe for a given length 
of time, in a big auto, doing himself well everywhere, 
without his real name coming out. He won the bet, but 
he told me — after he got over a bad dose of typhoid — that 
he’d lost the only girl he’d ever loved or could love — ^lost 
lier through that da — that stupid bet. He described the 
girl . I guess there aren’t two of her on earth ! ” 

“That’s a mighty fine compliment, Molly!” said 
Father Beckett. 

Just then Brian called, and I wasn’t sorry, for I couldn’t 
find the right answer for the man who had separated Jim 
Beckett from me. It was all I could do to get my breath. 

“WTiy, of course, that’s your brother! I might have 
known by the likeness. Gee, but it’s great about the dog! 
No wonder it despised the name of ‘Sherlock.’ Rather a 
come-down from a star! There’s a big story in this. 
Your party will have to dine with us correspondents, and 
talk things over. The crowd will be delighted. Say 
yes, Mrs. Beckett!” 

I heard no more, for I was on my way to Brian. But 
by the time I’d thanked Dierdre, been slightly snubbed 
by her, and successfully presented to Sirius, it was settled 
that we should spend our evening at Royalieu with the 
correspondents. The Beckett auto was ready, but the 
dog’s joy was too big for the biggest car, so Brian and I 
walked to the chateau, and Jack Curtis with us, to ex- 
ihange stories of le grand chien policier, late “Sherlock.” 


234 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Matching the new history on to the early mystery was 
like fitting in the lost bits of a jigsaw puzzle — bits which, 
when missing, left the picture void. Between Brian and 
the war correspondent the pattern came to life: but 
there’s one piece in the middle which can never be re- 
stored. Only one person could supply that: a German 
officer, and he is no longer in this world. 

' Jack Curtis found the police dog, badly wounded, at 
a place near Paschendaele, where the Germans had tem- 
porary headquarters and had been driven out after a 
fierce struggle. One of the dog’s legs was broken, and 
blood had dried on his glossy coat, but he “registered 
delight” (as moving picture people say) when he limped 
out of a half -ruined house to welcome the rush of British 
khaki. The few inhabitants who had lived in the village 
through the German occupation, knew the dog as “Sieg- 
fried,” to which name he had obstinately refused to 
answer. His German master, a captain, whom he obeyed 
sullenly, always dragged him about in leash, as he never 
willingly kept at heel. Everyone" wondered why the 
officer, who was far from lenient with his men, showed 
patience with the dog. But his orderly explained that 
Captain von Busche had picked up the starving animal 
weeks before, wandering about No Man’s Land. The 
creature was valuable, and his dislike of the gray-green 
uniform had puzzled Von Busche. His failure to win the 
dog’s affection piqued him, and in his blundering^way 
he persevered. The people of the village were more 
successful. They made friends with “Siegfried,” to 
Von Busche’s annoyance; and a day or two before the 
hurried German retreat under bombardment, the dog 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


235 


was beaten for deserting his master to follow a little 
boy. The boy, too, was punished for his “impudence’’ 
in calling the dog. People were indignant, and there 
! were secret murmurings about revenge. 

That night, however. Fate took the matter in hand. 
Precisely what happened is the bit that must remain 
missing in the puzzle. The dog slept in the room with 
i his master, in a house where several young officers lived 
close to headquarters. All of them had been out playing 
cards at a tavern. Von Busche returned earlier than the 
rest. He was seen in the street the worse for drink. He 
went into the house, and must have gone to his room, 
where the police dog had been shut up for hours in dis- 
grace. A moment later there was a yell, then a gurgling 
shriek. The neighbours listened — and shrugged their 
shoulders. The parents of the child who had been beaten 
by Von Busche lived next door. They heard sounds of a 
scuffle; furniture falling; faint groans and deep growls. 
Lips dared not speak, but eyes met and said: “The dog’s 
I done what we couldn’t do.” 

Silence had fallen long before Von Busche’s fellow 
officers came home; such silence as that town knew, where 
bombardment ceased not by day or night. Before dawn, 
a bomb fell on the roof of the house, which till then had 
never been touched, and the officers all scuttled out to 
save themselves; all but Von Busche. Whether in the 
i confusion he was forgotten, or whether it was thought 
he had not come home, no one could tell. He was not 
: seen again till after the Germans had packed up in haste 
i and decamped, which they did a few hours later, leaving 
the townsfolk to shelter in cellars. It was only when the 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


British arrived, and Siegfried limped out from the bat- 
tered house, that the dog’s existence was recalled — and 
the sounds in the night. Then the house was searched, 
and Von Busche’s body found, half buried under fallen 
tiles and plaster. There were wounds in his throat, 
however, not to be accounted for by the accident. The 
dog’s broken leg was also a mystery. “I had the poor 
boy mended up by a jolly good surgeon,” Jack Curtis 
finished his story. “He’s as sound as ever now. He 
attached himself to me from the first, as if he knew he 
had to thank me for his cure, but he wasn’t enthusiastic. 
I couldn’t fiatter myself that I was loved! I had the 
idea I wasn’t what he wanted — that he’d like to tell me 
what he did want, and politely bid me good-bye for- 
ever.” 

“You don’t know where Von Busche got hold of the 
dog, do you? ” Brian asked. 

“Only what his orderly told people, that it was in 
Flanders, close to some ruined, burnt-up chateau that he 
could hardly be forced to leave, though he was starving.” 

“I thought he’d get back there!” Brian said. “As 
for Von Busche — I wonder — ^but no! If it had been he 
the first time, would the dog have waited all those weeks 
for his revenge? ” 

“ I don’t understand,” said the war correspondent. 

“I don’t myself,” answered Brian. “But maybe the 
dog will manage to make me, some day. I was think- 
ing — how I found him, tied to a table in a burning room. 
If Von Busche But anyhow, Sirius, you’re no assas- 

sin ! At worst, you’re an avenger. ’ ’ 

The dog leaped upon Brian at sound of the remembered 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 237 

name. Odd that three of his names, chosen by different 
men, should begin with “ S ” ! 

He’s going to be an exciting passenger for the Becketts’ 
car I foresee. But Brian can make him do anything, 
even to keeping quiet. And the trip can’t go on a step 
without him now ! 

I felt that Jack Curtis had been hoping for a chance to 
I speak with me alone — about Jim. But there was no such 
chance then. We were met by two of the British corre- 
spondents, and a French officer with a very high and ancient 
title, who was playing host (for France) to the newspaper 
men in this old chateau, once a convent. You see, the 
two cars had shot past as we walked; and by the time we 
reached the door preparations were being made for an 
impromptu party. 

Never was a dinner so good, it seemed, and never was 
I talk so absorbing. Some of it concerned an arch of 
! honour or a statue to be placed over the spot where the 
first men of the American army fell in France: at Bethel- 
mont; some concerned a road whose constructon is being 
planned — a sacred road through Belgium and France, 
i from the North Sea to Alsace; a road to lead pilgrims past 
I villages and towns destroyed by Germany. This, ac' 

; cording to the correspondents who were full of the idea, 

! doesn’t mean that the devastation isn’t ultimately to 
be repaired. The proposal is, to leave in each martyred 
place a memorial for the eyes of coming generations: a 
ruined church; a burned chateau; the skeleton of an 
hotel de ville, or a wrecked factory; a mute appeal to all 
the world: “This was war, as the Germans made it. 
In the midst of peace, Remember ! ” 


^38 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Beneath my interest in the talk ran an undercurrent 
of my own private thought, which was not of the future, 
but of the past. I’d begun to wonder why I had been 
afraid of Jack Curtis. Instead of dreading words with 
him alone, I wished for them now. 

After dinner I had but a few minutes to wait. When 
I’d refused coffee, he, too, refused, and made an excuse to 
show me a room of which the correspondents were fond — • 
a room full of old trophies of the forest hunt. 

“Did you notice at dinner how I kept trying to get a 
good look at your left hand.^ ” Curtis asked. 

“No,” I answered, “ I didn’t notice that.” 

“I’m glad. I was scared you’d think me cheeky. 
Yet I couldn’t resist. I wanted to see whether Jim had 
given you the ring.” 

“The ring?” I echoed. 

“The ring of our bet, the year before the war: the bet 
you knew about, that kept you two apart till Jim came 
over to France this second time.” 

“Yes — I knew about the bet,” I said, “but not the 
ring. I — I haven’t an engagement ring.” 

“Queer!” Jack Curtis puzzled out aloud. “It was a 
race between Jim and me which should get that ring at an 
antique shop, when we both heard of its history. He 
could afford to bid higher, so he secured it. Not that he 
was selfish! But he said he wanted the ring in case he 
met his ideal and got engaged to her. If he’d lost the 
bet the ring would have been mine. If he didn’t give it 
to you, I wonder what’s become of the thing? Perhaps 
his mother loiows. Did she ever speak to you about 
Jim bringing home a quaint old ring from France, that 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


^time after his fever — a ring supposed to have belonged 
to the most beautiful woman of her day, the Italian Coun- 
tess Castiglione, whom Louis Napoleon loved? ” 

I “No,” I said. “He can’t have given the ring to his 
(mother, or she would have told me about it, I’m sure. 
(She’s always talking of him.” 

I “Perhaps it was stolen or lost,” Curtis reflected. “Yet 
|l don’t feel as if that had happened, somehow! I trust 
;my feelings a good deal — especially since this war, that’s 
made us all a bit psychic — don’t you? ” 

“I have too many feelings to trust half of them!” I 
tried to laugh. 

“Have you ever had one, I wonder, like mine, about 
Jim ? Dare I speak to you of this ? ” 

“Whynot?” 

“Well — I wouldn’t dare to his mother. Or even to 
the old man.” 

“ You must speak now, please, Mr. Curtis, to me ! ” 

“It’s this; have you ever had the feeling that Jim may 
be alive?” 

We were standing. I caught at the back of a chair. 
Things whirled for an instant. Then I gathered my 
wits together. “I haven’t let myself feel it,” I said. 
“And yet, in a way, I always feel it. I mean, I seem to 
feel — his thoughts round us. But that’s because we speak 
and think of him almost every moment of the day, his 
father and mother and I. There can be no doubt — 
can there?” 

“Others have come back from the dead since this war. 
Why not Jim Beckett? ” 

“They said they had — ^found his body.” 


240 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“Oh, they said I Germans say a lot of things. But 
for the Lord’s sake, Miss O’Malley, don’t let’s upset those 
poor old people with any such hope. I’ve only my feel- 
ing — and other people’s stories of escape — to go upon. 
I spoke to you, because I guess you’ve got a strong soul, 
and can stand shocks. Besides, you told me I must 
speak. I had to obey.” 

“Thank you for obeying,” I said. And just then 
someone came into the room. 

Now, Padre, I have told you the great thing. What 
does it matter what happens to me, if only Jack Curtis’s 
“ feeling ” comes true? 


CHAPTER XXIII 


I T IS two days since I wrote, Padre; and I have come 
back to Compiegne from a world of unnatural silence 
I and desolation. Day before yesterday it was Roye 
I and Nesle; the Chateau of Ham; Jussy, Chauny and 
I Prince Eitel Friedrich’s pavilion. To-morrow we hope to 
I start for Soissons. 

I Yesterday we rested, because Mother Beckett had a 
; shocking headache. (Oh, it was pathetic and funny, too, 

I what she said when we slipped back into Compiegne at 
I night! “Isn’t it a comfort, Molly, to see a place again 
where there are whole houses?”) After Soissons we shall 
return to Compiegne and then go to Amiens with several 
of the war correspondents, who have their own car. 
Women aren’t allowed, as a rule, to see anything of the 
British front, but it’s just possible that Father Beckett 
can get permission for his wife to venture within gazing 
distance. Of course, she can’t — or thinks she can’t — stir 
without me ! 

We took still another road to Noyon (one must pass 
through Noyon going toward the front, if one keeps 
Compiegne for one’s headquarters) and the slaughter of 
trees was the wickedest we’d seen: a long avenue of kind 
giants murdered, and orchards on both sides of it. The 
Germans, it seems, had circular saws, worked by motors, 
on purpose to destroy the large trees in a hurry. They 
241 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


242 

didn’t protect their retreat by barring the road with the 
felled trunks. They left most of the martyrs standing, 
their trunks so nearly sawed through that a wind would 
have blown them down. The pursuing armies had to 
finish the destruction to protect themselves. Farms 
were exterminated all along the way; and little hamlets — 
nameless for us — were heaps of blackened brick and stone, 
mercifully strewn with flowers like old altars to an un- 
forgotten god. 

Roye was the first big place on our road. It used to be 
rich, and its 4,000 inhabitants traded in grain and sugar. 
How the very name brought back our last spring joy in 
reading news of the recapture! “Important Victory. 
Roye Retaken.” It was grandly impressive in ruin, 
especially the old church of St. Pierre, whose immense, 
graceful windows used to be jewelled with ancient glass 
that people came from far away to see. 

Jim had written his mother about that glass, conse- 
quently she would get out of the car to climb (with my help 
and her husband’s) over a pile of fallen stones like a pet- 
rified cataract, which leads painfully up to the desecrated 
and pillaged high altar. I nearly sprained my ankle in 
getting to one of the windows, under which my eyes had 
caught the glint of a small, sparkhng thing: but I had my 
reward, for the sparkling thing was a lovely bit of sapphire- 
blue glass from the robe of some saint, and the little lady 
was grateful for the gift as if it had been a real jewel — 
indeed, more grateful. “I’ll keep it with my souvenirs 
of Jim,” she said, “for his eyes have looked on it: and it’s 
just the colour of yours which he loved. He’d be pleased 
that you found it for me.” (Ah, if she knew! I can’t 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


243 


help praying that she never may know, though such 
prayers from me are almost sacrilege.) 

A little farther on — as the motor, not the crow, flies — 
we came to Nesle, or what once was Nesle. The ghost 
of the twelfth-century church looms in skeleton form 
above one more Pompeii among the many forced by the 
Germans upon France: but save for that towering relic 
of the past there’s little left of this brave town of the 
Somme, which was historic before the thirteenth cen- 
tury. It gave its name to a famous flghting family of 
feudal days: and through the last heiress of the line — a 
beauty and a “catch” — a certain Seigneur de Nesle 
became Regent of France, in the second Crusade of 
Louis XII — “Saint Louis.” Later ladies of the line 
became dear friends of another Louis, fifteenth of the name, 
who was never called saint. Not far from Nesle, Henry 
V of England crossed the Somme and won the Battle of 
Agincourt. But now, the greatest dramatic interest is 
concentrated in the cemetery ! 

We had heard of it at Compiegne and the wild things 
that had happened there: so after a look at the ruined 
church, and the once charming Place, we went straight 
to the town burial-place, and our unoflScial guide was the 
oldest man I ever saw. He had lurked rather than 
lived, through months of German barbarity at Nesle, 
guarding a bag of money he’d hidden underground. An 
officer from Noyon was with us; but he had knowledge 
of the ancient man — a great character — and bade him 
tell us the tale of the graveyard. He obeyed with 
unction and with gestures like lightning as it flashes 
across a night sky. The looks ihis old eyes darted 


244 EVERYMAN’S LAND 

forth as he talked might have struck a live German 
dead. 

“ The animals ! What do you think they did when they 
were masters here?” he snarled. “Ah, you do not know 
the Boches as we learned to know them, so you would 
never guess. They opened our tombs, the vaults of 
distinguished families of France. They broke the coffins 
and stole the rings from skeleton fingers. They left the 
bones of our ancestors, and of our friends whose living 
faces we could remember, scattered over the ground, as 
if to feed the dogs. In our empty coffins they placed 
their own dead. On the stone or marble of monuments 
they cut away the names of those whose sacred sleep 
they had disturbed. Instead, they inscribed the dis- 
gusting names of their Boche generals and colonels. 
Where they could not change the inscriptions they de- 
stroyed the tombstones and set up others. You will 
see them now. But wait — ^you have not heard all yet. 
Far from that! When the Tommies came to Nesle — 
your English Tommies — they did not like what the Boches 
had; done to our cemetery. They said things — strong 
things ! And while they were hot with anger they knocked 
the hideous new monuments about. They could not 
bear to see them mark the stolen graves. The little crosses 
that showed where simple soldiers lay, those they did not 
touch. It was only the officers’ tombs they spoiled. I 
will show you what they did.” 

We let him hobble ahead of us into the graveyard. He 
led us past the long rows of low wooden crosses with 
German names on them, the crosses with British 
names — (good, sturdy British names: “Hardy,” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


245 


“Kemp,” “Logan,” “Wilding,” planted among flowers 
of France) — and paused in the aristocratic corner of the 
city of the dead. Once, this had been the last earthly 
resting-place of old French families, or of the rich whose 
relatives could afford expensive monuments. But the 
war had changed all that. German names had replaced 
the ancient French ones on the vaults, as German corpses 
had replaced French bodies in the coffins. Stone and 
marble monuments had been recarved, or new ones 
raised. There were roughly cut figures of German colonels 
and majors and captains. This rearrangement was what 
the “Tommies” had “not liked.” They liked it so little 
that they chopped off stone noses and faces; they threw 
red ink, brighter than blood, over carved German uni- 
forms, and neatly chipped away the counterfeit present- 
ment of iron crosses. In some cases, also, they purified 
the vaults of German bones and gave back in exchange 
such French ones as they found scattered. They wrote in 
large letters on tombstones, ^^Boch no bon,** and other 
illiterate comments unflattering to the dead usurpers; 
all of which, our old man explained, mightily endeared the 
Atkinses to the returning inhabitants of Nesle. 

“Those brave Tommies are gone now,” he sighed, “but 
they left their dead in our care. You see those flowers on 
their graves? It is we who put them there, and the 
children tend them every day. If you come back next 
year, it will be the same. We shall not forget.” 

“A great statesman paid us a visit not long after Nesle 
was liberated,” our officer guide took up the story. “He 
had heard what the Tommies did, and he was not quite 
sure if they were justified. ‘After all, German or 


246 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


not German, a tomb is a tomb, and tbe dead are dead,’ 
he argued. But when he saw the cemetery of another 
place not far away, where the bodies of Frenchmen — 
yes, and women and little babies! — still lay where Ger- 
mans had thrown them in stealing their graves, the grand 
old man’s blood rushed to his head. He was no longer 
uncertain if the Tommies were right. He was certain 
they had done well; and in his red rage he, with his own 
hands, tore down thirty of the lying tombstones.” 

Oh, the silence of these dead towns that the Germans 
have killed with bombs and burning! You know what it 
is like, Padre, because you have passed behind the veil 
and have knowledge beyond our dreaming: but to me 
it is a triste rSvSlation. I never realized^before what the 
words “dead silence” could mean. It is a silence you 
hear. It cries out as the loudest voice could not cry. 
It makes you listen — listen for the pleasant, homely 
sounds you’ve always associated with human habitations : 
the laughter of girls, the shouts of schoolboys, the friendly 
barking of dogs. But you listen in vain. You wonder 
if you are deaf — if other people are hearing what you 
cannot hear: and then you see on each face the same blank, 
listening look that must be on your own. I think a 
night at Chauny, or Jussy, might drive a weak woman 
mad. But — I haven’t come to Chauny or Jussy yet! 
After Nesle we arrived at Ham, with its canal and its 
green, surrounding marshes. 

Ham has ceased to be silent. There are some houses 
left, and to those houses people have come back. Shops 
have reopened, as at Noyon, where the French Govern- 
ment has advanced money to the business men. We 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


247 


drove into the town of Ham (what is left of it!) just as 
we were hating ourselves for being hungry. It is sordid 
and dreadful to be hungry in the midst of one’s rage and 
grief and pity — to want to eat in a place like Ham, where 
one should wish to absorb nothing but history; yet our 
officer guide, who has helped make a good deal of history 
since 1914, seemed to think lunching quite as important 
as sightseeing. In a somewhat battered square, busy 
with reopening shops (some of them most quaint shops, 
with false hair as a favourite display !) was a hotel. The 
Germans had lived in it for months. They had bullied 
the very old, very vital landlady who welcomed us. Their 
boots had worn holes in the stair carpet, going up and 
down in a goose-step. Their elbows had polished the 
long table in the dining room, and — oh, horror! — ^their 
mouths had drunk beer from glasses in which the good 
wine of France was offered to us ! 

“Ah, but I have scrubbed the goblets since with a 
fortune’s worth of soda,” the woman volubly explained. 
“They are purified. If I could wash away as easily the 
memories behind my eyes and in my ears! Of them 
I cannot get rid. Whenever I see an automobile, yes, 
even the most innocent automobile, I live again through 
a certain scene! We had here at Ham an invalid woman, 
whose husband the Boches took out and shot. When 
she heard the news, she threw herself under one of their 
military cars and was killed. If a young girl passes my 
windows (alas, it is seldom! the Germans know why) 
I see once more a procession of girls lined up to send into 
slavery. God knows where they are now, those children! 
All we know is, that in this country there is not a girl 


248 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


left of an age between twelve and twenty, unless she was 
hidden or disguised when the Boches took their toll. If 
I hear a sound of bells, I see our people being herded into 
church — our old, old church, with its proud monuments! 
— so their houses might be burned before the Germans 
had to run. They stayed in the church for days and 
nights, waiting for the chateau to be blown up. What a 
suspense! No one knew if the great shock, when it came, 
might not kill everyone ! ” 

As she exploded reminiscences, the old lady fed us 
with ham and omelette salted with tears. We had to 
eat, or hurt her feehngs, but it was as if we swallowed 
the poor creature’s emotion with our food, and the effect 
within was dynamic. I never had such a volcanic meal! 
Our French officer was the only calm one among us, but 
— he had been stationed in this liberated region for months. 
It’s an old story for him. 

After luncheon we staggered away to see the great 
sight of Ham, the fortress-chdteau which has given it 
history and fame for centuries. The Germans blew up 
the citadel out of sheer spite, as the vast pink pile long 
ago ceased to be of military value. They wished to show 
their power by ruining the future of the town, which 
lived on its monument historique: but (as often happens 
with their “frightfuhiess”) that object was just the one 
they failed in. I can’t believe that the castle of Ham 
was as striking in its untouched magnificence as now in 
the rose-red splendour of its ruin ! 

To be sure, the guardians can never again show pre- 
cisely where Joan of Arc was imprisoned, or the rooms 
where Louis Napoleon lived through his six years of 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


249 


captivity, or the little garden he used to cultivate, or the 
way he passed to escape over the drawbridge, dressed as 
a mason, with a plank on his shoulder. But the glorious 
old tower or donjon still stands, one hundred feet high 
and one hundred feet wide. German gunpowder was too 
weak to bring it down, and so perhaps the prophecy of 
tlie Comte de St. Pol, builder of the fortress, may be 
! fulfilled — that while France stands, the tower of Ham’s 
citadel will stand. Thousands more pilgrims will come 
in a year, after the war, to see what the Germans did 
and what they failed to do, than ever came in the mild, 
prosperous days before 1914, when Ham’s best history 
was old. They will come and gaze at the massive bulk — 
red always as if reflecting sunset light — looming against 
the blue; they will peer down into dusky dungeons under- 
ground: and the new guardian (a mutilated soldier he’ll 
be, perhaps, decorated with the croix de guerre) will 
tell them about the girl of Ham who lured a German 
officer to a death-trap in a secret oubliette y “where ’tis 
said his body lies to-day.” Then they will stand under 
the celebrated old tree in the courtyard, unhurt by the 
explosion, and take photographs of the chateau the Ger- 
mans have unwittingly made more beautiful than be- 
fore. 

“Mon mieux^* was the motto St. Pol carved over the 
gateway; “Our worst” is the taunt the Germans have flung. 
But the combination of that best and worst is glorious to 
the eye. 

From Ham we spun on to Jussy, along the new white 
road which is so amazing when one thinks that every 
yard of it had to be created out of chaos a few months 


250 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


ago. (They say that some sort of surface was given for 
the army to pass over in three days’ work!) At Jussy we 
came close to the real front — closer than we’ve been yet, 
except when we went to the American trenches. The 
first line was only three miles away, and the place is under 
bombardment, but this was what our guide called a 
‘‘quiet day,” so there was only an occasional mumble and 
boom. The town was destroyed, wiped almost out 
of existence, save for heaps of rubble which might have 
been houses or hills. But there were things to be seen 
which would have made Jussy worth a long journey. It 
had been a prosperous place, with one of the biggest sugar 
refineries in France, and the wrecked usine was as terrible 
and thrilling as the moon seen through the biggest tele- 
scope in the world. 

Not that it looked like the moon. It looked more like 
a futurist sketch, in red and brown, of the heart of a 
cyclone; or of the inside of a submarine that has rammed 
a skeleton ship on the stocks. But the sight gave me the 
same kind of icy shock I had when I first saw the moon’s 
ravaged face through a huge telescope. You took me, 
Padre, so you’ll remember. 

If you came to Jussy, and didn’t know about the war, 
you’d think you had stumbled into hell — or else that you 
were having a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. I shall 
never forget a brobdingnagian boiler as big as a battle 
tank, that had reared itself on its hind-legs to peer through 
a cheval dc frise of writhing girders — tortured girders like 
a vast wilderness of immense thorn bushes in a hopeless 
tangle, or a pit of bloodstained snakes. The walls of the 
usine have simply melted, and it’s hard to realize that it 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


251 


las a building, put up by human hands for human uses, ever 
|existed. There is a new Jussy, though, created since the 

( German retreat; and seeing it, you couldn’t help know- 
ing that there was a war! The whole landscape is full 
of cannon, big and little and middle-sized. Queer mush- 
room buildings have sprung up, for officers’ and soldiers’ 
barracks and canteens. Narrow plank walks built high 
above mud-level — “duck boards,” I think they’re called — 
lead to the corrugated iron, tin, and wooden huts. There 
are aerodromes and aerodromes like a vast circus encamp- 
ment, where there are not cannon; and the greenish can- 
vas roofs give the only bit of colour, as far as the eye can 
see — unless one counts the soldiers’ uniforms. All the 
rest is gray as the desert before a dust-storm. Even 
the sky, which had been blue and bright, was gray over 
I Jussy, and the grayest of gray things were the immense 
*"saucisses ^' — three or four of them — ^hanging low under 
the clouds like advertisements of titanic potatoes, haugh- 
tiest of war-time vegetables. 

Dierdre O’Farrell inadvertently called the big bulks 
saudssons,^^ which amused our officer guide so much 
'that he laughed to tears. The rest of us were able to 
raise only a faint smile, and we felt his disappointment at 
our lack of humour. 

“Ah, but it is mo^t funny he said. “I will tell 
everyone. In future they shall for us be ‘saucissons’ for- 
ever. I suppose it is not so funny for you, because the 
sight of these dead towns has made you sad. I am almost 
afraid to take you on to Chauny. You will be much 
sadder there. Chauny is the sight most pitiful of all. 
Would you perhaps wish to avoid it? ” 


252 EVERYMAN’S LAND 

“What about you, Mother?” Father Beckett wanted 
to know. 

But Mother had no wish to avoid Chauny. She was not 
able to believe that anything could be sadder than Roye, 
or Nesle, or Ham, or more grim than Jussy. 

“He doesn’t want to take us to Chauny,” Brian whis- 
pered to me. We were all grouped together near the 
cars, with Sirius, a quiet, happy dog. “He’s trying to 
think up a new excuse to get out of it.” 

I glanced at our guide. It was like Brian to have 
guessed what we hadn’t seen! Now I was on the alert, 
the clear-cut French face did look nonplussed; and a 
nervous brown hand was tugging at a smart black mous- 
tache. 

“Is there any reason why you think it would be better 
for us not to go there? ” I decided to ask frankly. 

“It’s getting rather late,” he suggested, in hfe precise 
English. “You have also the Pavilion of Prince Eitel 
Fritz before you. If it grows too dark, you cannot see 
St. Quentin well, in the distance, and the glasses will be of 
no use for Soissons.” 

“But we’re going to Soissons day after to-morrow !’\ 
said Father Beckett. 

“And there’ll be a moon presently,” added Dierdre. 
She had heard of the ruined convent at Chauny and was 
determined not to miss it. 

“Yes, there’ll be a moon,” reluctantly admitted Mon- 
sieur le Lieutenant. 

“Is there still another reason? ” I tried to help him. 

“Well, yes, there is one. Mademoiselle,” he blurted 
^out. “I had meant not to mention it. But perhaps it 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


253 


I is best to tell, and then you may all choose whether you 
1 go to Chauny or not. There is a certain risk at this time 
i of day, or a little later. You know we are close to the 
! front here, and enemy aeroplanes fly nearly every after- 
' noon over Chauny toward dusk. They hope to catch some 
: important personage, and they come expressly to ‘spot’ 
j automobiles. The road through the ruined town is 
i white and new, and the gray military cars in which we 
! bring visitors to the front stand out clearly, especially 
as twilight falls. I’m afraid we have lingered too long in 
some of these places. If we were a party of men, I 
should say nothing, but with three ladies ” 

“I can answer for all three, Monsieur,” said Mother 
Beckett, with a pathetically defiant tilt of her small chin. 

“My son, you know, was a soldier. We have come to 
i this part of the world to see what we can do for the people 
in honour of his memory. So we mustn’t leave Chauny 
out.” 

“Madame, there are no people there, for there are no 
; houses. There are but a few soldiers with an anti-air- 
craft gun.” 

“We must see what can be done about building up 
I some of the houses so the people can come back,” persisted 
I the old lady, with that gentle obstinacy of hers. 

The French officer made no more objections; and know- 
■ ing his wife, I suppose Father Beckett felt it useless to offer 
any. We started at once for Chauny: in fact, we flew 
along the road almost as fast— it seemed— as enemy 
aeroplanes could fly along the sky if they pursued. But 
we had a long respite still before twilight. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


O UR guide was right. Chauny was sadder than the 
I rest, because there had been more of beauty to 
ruin. And it was ruined cruelly, completely! 
Even Gerbeviller, in Lorraine, had been less sad than 
this — ^less sad because of Soeur Julie, and the quarter 
on the hill which her devotion saved; less sad, because of 
the American Red Cross reconstruction centre, for the 
fruit trees. Here there had been no Soeur Julie, no re- 
construction centre yet. The Germans, when they knew 
they had to go, gave three weeks to their wrecking work. 
They sent off, neatly packed, all that was worth sending 
to Germany. They measured the cellars to see what 
quantity of explosives would be needed to blow up the 
houses. Then they blew them up, making their quarters 
meanwhile at a safe distance, in the convent. As for that 
convent — ^you will see what happened there when the 
BocheS had no further use for it ! 

In happy days before the war, whose joys we took com- 
fortably for granted, Chauny had several chateaux of beauty 
and charm. It had pretty houses and lots of fine shops and 
a park. It was proud of its mairie and church and great 
usine (now a sight of horror), and the newer parts of the 
town did honour to their architects. But — Chauny was 
on the direct road between Cologne and Paris. Nobody 
thought much a6out this fact then, except that it helped 
254 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


255 


I 

I 

I travel and so was good for the country. It is only now that 
; one knows what a price Chauny paid for the advantage. 

I Instead of a beautiful town there remains a heap of cinders, 

: with here and there a wrecked fagade of pitiful grace or 
! broken dignity to tell where stood the proudest buildings. 

The sky was empty of enemy ’planes; but our guide 
hurried us through the town, where the new road shone 
white in contrast with our cars; and having hidden the 
autos under a group of trees outside, led us on foot toward 
the convent. The approach was exquisite: a long, long 
avenue of architectural elms, arbour-like in shade, once 
the favourite evening promenade of Chauny. That 
tunnel of emerald and gold would have been an interlude 
of peace between two tragedies — tragedy of the town, 
tragedy of the convent — if the ground hadn’t been strew i 
with torn papers, like leaves scattered by the wind : official 
records flung out of strong boxes by ruthless German 
hands, poor remnants no longer of value, and saved from 
destruction only by the kindly trees, friends of happy 
memories. “The Boches didn’t take time to spoil this 
avenue,” said our officer. “They liked it while they lived 
in the convent; and they left in a hurry.” 

Just beyond the avenue lies the convent garden; and 
though it is autumn, when we stepped into that garden 
we stepped into an oasis of old-fashioned, fragrant flowers, 
guarded by delicate trees, gentle as the vanished Sisters 
and their flock of young girl pupils; sweet, small trees, 
bending low as if to shield the garden’s breast from harm. 

I wish when Chauny is rebuilt this convent might be 
left as a monument historique, for, ringed by its perfumed 
pleasance, it is a glimpse of “fairylands forlorn.” 


256 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


One half believes there must have been some fairy charm 
at work which kept the fire-breathing German dragon 
from laying this garden waste when he was forced out 
of his stolen lair in the convent! Little remains of the 
house, and in the rubbish heap of fallen walls and beams 
and plaster, narrow iron bedsteads, where nuns slept or 
young girls dreamed, perch timidly among stones and 
blackened bricks. But in the garden all is fiowery peace: 
and the chapel, though ruined, is a strange vision of beauty 
framed in horror. 

Not that the Germans were merciful there. They 
burned and blew up all that would burn or blow up. The 
roof fell, and heaped the fioor with wreckage; but out of 
that wreckage, as out of a troubled sea, rise two figures: 
St. Joseph, and an almost life-size, painted statue of the 
Virgin. There the two stand firmly on their pedestals, 
their faces raised to God’s roof of blue, which never fails. 
Because their eyes are lifted, they do not see the fiotsam 
and jetsam of shattered stained glass, burnt woodwork, 
smashed benches, broken picture-frames and torn, rain- 
blurred portraits of lesser saints. They seem to think 
only of heaven. 

Though I’m not a Catholic, the chapel gave me such a 
sense of sacredness and benediction that I felt I must be 
there alone, if only for a moment. So when our officer led 
the others out I stayed behind. A clear ray of late 
sunshine slanted through a broken window set high in a 
side wall, to stream full upon the face of the Virgin. Some- 
one had crowned her with a wreath of fresh flowers, and 
had thrust a few white roses under the folded hands which 
seemed to clasp them lovingly, with a prayer for the peace 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


257 


of the world. The dazzling radiance brought face 
and figure to life; and it was as if a living woman had 
taken the statue’s place on the pedestal. The effect was so 
startling that, if I were a Catholic, I might have believed 
in a miracle. Protestant as I am, I had the impulse to 
pray: but — (I don’t know, Padre, if I have ever told you 
this) — I’ve not dared to pray properly since I first stole the 
Becketts’ love for Brian and me. I’ve not dared, though 
never in my life have I so needed and longed for prayer. 

This time I couldn’t resist, unworthy as I am. The 
smile of peace and pardon on the statue’s illumined face 
seemed to make all sin forgivable in this haunt of holy 
dreams. “God forgive me, and show me how to atone,” 
I sent my plea skyward. Suddenly the conviction came 
that I should be shown a way of atonement, though it 
might be hard. I felt lighter of heart, and went on to 
pray that Jack Curtis’s hope might be justified: that, no 
matter what happened to me, or even to Brian, Jim 
Beckett might be alive, in this world, and come back 
safely to his parents. 

While I prayed, a sound disturbed the deep silence. It 
was a far-away sound, but quickly it grew louder and drew 
nearer: at first a buzzing as of all the bees in France 
mobilized in a bee-barrage. Then the buzzing became a 
roar. I knew directly what it was : enemy aeroplanes. 

I could not see them yet, but they must be close. If 
they were flying very low, to search Chauny for visitors, I 
might be seen if I moved. Those in the garden were bet- 
ter off than I, for they were screened by the trees, but 
trying to join them I might attract attention to myself. 

As I thought this, I wondered why I didn’t decide upon 


258 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


the thing most likely to solve all my problems at once* 
If I were killed, Brian would grieve: but he had the 
Becketts to love and care for him, and — ^he had Dierdre: 
no use disguising that fact from my intelligence, after 
the episode of the dog! What a chance for me to dis- 
appear, having done for Brian all I could do! Oh, why 
didn’t I add another prayer to my last, and beg God 
to let me die that minute? 

I’ll tell you why I did not pray this. Padre, and why, 
instead of trying to expose my life, I wished — almost 
unconsciously — to save it. I hardly realized why then, 
but I do realize now. It is different in these days from 
that night in Paris, when I wished I might be run over 
by a motor-car. At that time I should have been glad 
to die. Now I cling to life — not just because I’m young 
and strong, and people call me beautiful, but because I 
feel I must stay in the world to see what happens next. 

I kept as still as a frightened mouse. I didn’t move. I 
scarcely breathed. Presently an aeroplane sailed into 
sight directly overhead, and flying so low that I could 
make out its iron cross, exactly like photographs I’d seen. 
Whether the men in it could see me or not I can’t tell; but 
if they could, perhaps they mistook me for one of the 
statues they knew existed in the ruined chapel, and thought 
I wasn’t worth bombing. 

In that case it was St. Joseph and the Virgin who pro- 
tected me ! 

In a second the big bird of prey had swept on. I was 
sick with fear for a moment lest it should drop an “egg” on 
to the garden, and kill Brian or the Becketts, or the 
lieutenant who had wished to spare us this danger. Even 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


259 


the O’Farrells I didn’t want hurt; and I was pleased to 
find out that about myself, because they are a far more 
I constant danger for me than all the aeroplanes along 
^ the German front; and when I came face to face with 
I realities in my own soul, I might have discovered a wicked 
j desire for them to be out of the way at any price. But 
since Dierdre proved herself ready to die for Brian, I do 
admire if I don’t like her. As for Julian — would it be 
possible. Padre, to miss a person you almost hate.^^ Any- 
how, when I tried to imagine how I should feel if I went 
back to the garden and saw him dead, I grew quite giddy 
and ill. How queer we are, we human things! 

But no one was hurt. The whole party hid under the 
trees; and as the cars were also hidden at a distance, the 
German fliers turned tail, disappointed; besides, the anti- 
aircraft gun which we’d been told about, and had seen 
on our way to the convent, was potting away like mad, so it 
wasn’t healthful for aeroplanes to linger merely “on spec.” 

Mother Beckett was pale and trembling a little, but she 
said that she had been too anxious about me, in my ab- 
sence, to think of herself, which was perhaps a good thing. 
I noticed, when I Joined them in the garden, after the roar 
had changed again to a buzz, that Dierdre stood close to 
Brian, and that his hand was on her shoulder, her hand on 
Sirius’s beautiful head. Yet I felt too strangely happy 
to be jealous. I suppose it must have been through my 
prayer — or the answer to it. 


When all was clear and the danger over (our guide said 
that the “birds” never made more than one tour of in- 


260 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


spection in an afternoon) we started off again. Father 
Beckett suggested that his wife had better go home and 
rest, but she wouldn’t hear of it. And when we reached 
a turning of the road which would lead us to Coucy-le 
Chateau, it was she who begged our lieutenant to let us 
run along that way, “just far enough for a glimpse, a 
tiny glimpse.” 

“My son wrote me it was the most wonderful old 
chateau in France,” she pleaded. “I’ve got in my pocket 
now a snapshot he sent me.** 

The Frenchman couldn’t resist. You know how charm- 
ing the French are to old ladies. “It isn’t as safe as — as the 
Bank of England!” he laughed. “Sometimes they keep 
this road rather hot. But to-day, I have told you, things 
are quiet all along. We will take what Madame calls a 
tiny glimpse.” 

Orders were given to our chauffeur. Brian was with 
the O’Farrells, coming on behind, and of course the Red 
Cross taxi followed at our heels like a faithful dachshund. 
Our big car flew swiftly, and the little one did its jolting 
best to keep up the pace, for time wouldn’t wait for us — 
and these autumn days are cutting themselves short. 

Presently we saw a thing which proved that the road 
was indeed “hot” sometimes: a neat, round shell-hole, 
which looked ominously new! We swung past it with a 
bump, and flashed into sight of a ruin which dwarfed all 
others we had seen — -yes, dwarfed even cathedrals! A 
long line of ramparts rising from a high headland of gray- 
white chalk-ramparts crowned with broken, round 
towers, which the sun was painting with heraldic gold: the 
stump of a tremendous keep that reared its bulk like a 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


261 


giant in his death struggle, for a last look over his shield of 
shattered walls. This was what German malice had 
made of Coucy, pride of France, architectural master- 
piece of feudal times ! 

‘‘This is as far as I dare go!” our lieutenant said, with a 
brusque gesture which bade the chauffeur stop. But 
before the car turned, he gave us a moment to take in 
the picture of grandeur and unforgivable cruelty. Yes, 
unforgivable! for you know. Padre, there was no military 
motive in the destruction. The only object was to de- 
prive France forever of the noblest of her castles, which 
has helped in the making of her history since a bishop of 
Rheims began to build it in 920. 

“Roi nesuis 

Ne prince, ne due, ne comte aussy. 

Je suys le Sire de Coucy.” 

The beautiful old boast in beautiful old French sang in 
my head as I gazed through tears at the new ruin of 
ancient grandeur. 

Some of those haughty Sires de Coucy may have 
deserved to have their stronghold destroyed, for they 
seem — most of them — to have been as bad as they were 
vain. I remember there was one, in the days of Louis 
XII, who punished three little boys for killing a few 
rabbits in his park, by ordering the children to be hanged 
on the spot; and St. Louis was so angry on hearing of the 
crime that he wished to hang the Sire de Coucy on the 
same tree. There were others I’ve read of, just as wicked 
and high-handed: but their castle was not to blame for 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


SC2 

its master’s crimes! Besides, the last of the proud 
Enguerrands and Thomases and Raouls, Seigneurs of the 
line, was son-in-law to Edward III of England; so all their 
sins were expiated long ago. 

“The Boches were jealous of our Coucy,” said the 
Frenchman, with a sigh. “They have nothing to com- 
pare with it on their side of the Rhine. If they could have 
packed up the chateau and carted it across the frontier 
they would — if it had taken three years. As they couldn’t 
do that, they did what Cardinal Mazarin wasn’t able to 
do with his picked engineers; they blew it up with high 
explosives. But all they could steal they stole: carvings 
and historic furniture. You know there was a room the 
guardian used to show before the war — the room where 
Cesar de Bourbon was born, the son of Henri Quatre of 
Navarre and Gabrielle d’Estrees.^^ That room the Boches 
emptied when they first came in August, 1914. Not a 
piece of rich tapestry, not a suit of armour, not even a 
chair, or a table, or lamp did they leave. Everything 
was sent to Germany. But we believe we shall get it 
all again some day. And now we must go, for the Boches 
shell this road whenever they think of it, or have nothing 
better to do!” 

The signal was given. We turned and tore along the 
road by which we’d come, our backs feeling rather sen- 
sitive and exposed to chance German bombs, until we’d 
got round the corner to a “safe section.” Our way led 
through a pitiful country of crippled trees to a curious 
round hill. A little castle or miniature fortress must 
have crowned it once, for the height was entirely circled 
by an ancient moat. On top of this green mound Prince 


EVERYMAN’S I.AND 


263 


Eitel Fritz built for himself the imitation shooting-lodge 
which was our goal and viewpoint. And, Padre, there 
can’t be another such German-looking spot in martyred 
France as he has made of the insulted hillock ! 

I don’t know how many fair young birch trees he 
sacrificed to build a summer-house for himself and his 
staff to drink beer in, and gaze over the country, at 
St. Quentin, at Soissons and a hundred conquered towns 
and villages! Now he’s obliged to look from St. Quentin 
at the summer-house — and how we pray that it may not 
be for long! 

Over one door of the building a pair of crossed swords 
carved heavily in wood form a stolid German decoration; 
and still more maddeningly German are the seats outside 
the house, made of cement and shaped like toadstools. In 
the sitting room are rough chairs, and a big table so 
stained with wine and beer that I could almost see the fat) 
figures of the prince and his friends grouped round it, with 
cheers for “ JVein, Weib, und GesangJ' 

Close down below us, in sloping green meadows, a lot of 
war-worn horses en 'permission were grazing peacefully. 
Our guide said that some were “Americans,” and I 
fancied them dreaming of Kentucky grasslands, or the 
desert herbs of the Far West, which they will never taste 
again. Also I yearned sorrowfully over the weary crea- 
tures that had done their “bit” without any incentive, 
without much praise or glory, and that would presently go 
back to do it all over again, until they died or were finally 
disabled. I remembered a cavalry-man I nursed in our 
Hopital des Epidemics telling me how brave horses are. 
“The only trouble with them in battle,” he said, “is when 


264 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


their riders are killed, to make them fall out of line. 
They will keep their places ! ” 

Both Father Beckett and the French officer had field- 
glasses, but we hardly needed them for St. Quentin. Far 
away across a plain slowly turning from bright blue-green 
to dim green-blue in the twilight, we saw a dream town 
built of violet shadows — Marie Stuart’s dowry town. 
Its purple roofs and the dominating towers of its great 
collegiate church were ethereal as a mirage, yet delicately 
clear, and so beautiful, rising from the river-bank, that I 
shuddered to think of the French guns, forced to break 
the heart of Faidherbe’s brave city. 

It was a time of day to call back the past, for in the 
falling dusk modern things and old things blended lov- 
ingly together. For all one could see of detail, nothing 
had changed much since the plain of Picardy was the 
great Merovingian centre of France, the gateway through 
which the English marched, and went away never to return 
until they came as friends. Still less had the scene changed 
since the brave days when Marguerite de Valois rode 
through Picardy with her band of lovely ladies and gallant 
gentlemen. It was summer when she travelled; but on 
just such an evening of blue twilight and silver moonshine 
might she have had her pretended carriage accident at 
Catelet, as an excuse to disappoint the Bishop of Cambrai, 
and meet the man best loved of all her lovers. Due Henri de 
Guise. It was just then he had got the wound which gave 
him his scar and his nickname of “Ze RaZa/r^”; and she 
would have been all the more anxious not to miss her hero. 

I thought of that adventure, because of the picture Brian 
painted of the Queen on her journey, the only one of his 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


265 


which has been hung in the Academy, you know, Padre; 
and I sat for Marguerite. Not that I’m her type at all, 
judging from portraits! However, I fancied myself in- 
tensely in the finished picture, and used to hope I should 
be recognized when I strolled into the Academy. But 
I never was. 

Looking down over the plain of Picardy, I pretended to 
myself that I could see the Queen’s procession: Marguerite 
(looking as much as possible like me !) in her gold and crys- 
tal coach, lined with rose-coloured Spanish velvet, jewel- 
broidered : the gentlemen outriders trying to stare through 
the thick panes obscured with designs and mottoes 
concerning the sun and its influence upon human fate; the 
high-born girls chattering to each other from their em- 
broidered Spanish saddles, as they rode on white pal- 
freys, trailing after the glittering coach; and the dust 
rising like smoke from wheels of jolting chariots which 
held the elder women of the Court. 

Oh, those were great days, the days of Henry of Navarre 
and his naughty wife! But, after all, there wasn’t as 
much chivalry and real romance in Picardy then, or in 
the time of St. Quentin himself, as war has brought back 
to it now. No deeds we can find in history equal the 
deeds of to-day ! 


We got lost going home, somehow taking the wrong road, 
straying into a wood, plunging and bumping down and 
down over fearful roads, and landing — ^by what might 
have been a bad accident — in a deep ravine almost too 
strange to be true. 


266 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Even our French officer couldn’t make out what had 
happened to us, or whither we’d wandered, until we’d 
stopped, and our blaze of acetylene had lighted up a series 
of fantastic caverns in the rock (caverns improved up to 
date by German cement) and in front of that honeycombed 
gray wall a flat, grassy lawn that was a graveyard. 

“ilfon Dieu, c*est le Ravin de Bitry /” he cried. “Let us 
get out of it! I would never have brought you here of 
my own free will.” 

“But why — ^why.?” I insisted. “It isn’t the only 
graveyard we have seen, alas! and there are only French 
names on the little crosses.” 

“I know,” he said. “After we chased the Germans out 
of this hole, we lived here ourselves, in their caves — and 
died here, as you see. Mademoiselle. But the place is 
haunted, and not by spirits of the dead — ^worse! Put on 
your hats again. Messieurs! The dead will forgive you. 
And, ladies, wrap veils over your faces. If it were not so 
late, you would already know why. But the noise of our 
autos, and the lights may stir up those ghosts ! ” 

Then, in an instant, before the cars could turn, we did 
know why. Flies! . . . such flies as I had never 

seen . . . nightmare flies. They rose from every- 

where, in a thick black cloud, like the plague of Egypt. 
They were in thousands. They were big as bees. They 
dropped on us like a black jelly falling out of a mould. 
They sat all over us. It was only when our cars had 
swayed and stumbled up again, over that awful road, 
out of the haunted hole in the deep woods, and risen into 
fresh, moving air, that the horde deserted us. Julian 
O’Farrell had his hands bitten, and dear Mother Beckett 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


267 


was badly stung on the throat. Horrible! ... I 
I don’t think I could have slept at night for thinking of the 
Ravin de B'itry, if we hadn’t had such a refreshing run 
home that the impression of the lost, dark place was puri- 
fied away. 

Forest fragrance sprayed into our faces like perfume 
from a vaporizer. We seemed to pass through endless 
halls supported by white marble pillars, which were really 
spaces between trees, magically transformed by our 
blazing headlight. Always in front of us hovered an 
archway of frosted silver, moving as we moved, like a 
pale, elusive rainbow; and when we put on extra speed 
i for a long, straight stretch, poplars carelessly spared by 
I the Boches spouted up on either side of us like geysers. 

! Then, suddenly, across a stretch of blackness palely shone 
Compiegne, as Venice shines across the dark lagoon. 


CHAPTER XXV 



ITTLE did I think, Padre, to write you from Soissons! 


When last I spoke to you about it, we were 


« gazing through field-glasses at the single tower of 
the cathedral, pointing out of purple shadows toward the 
evening star of hope. Then we lost ourselves in the 
Ravin de Bitry, and arrived thankfully at Compiegne 
two hours later than we had planned. We expected to 
have part of a day at Soissons, but — I told you of the 
dreadful flies in that ravine of death, and how Mother 
Beckett was stung on the throat. The next day she had 
a headache, but took aspirin, and pronounced herself 
well enough for the trip to Soissons. Father Beckett let 
her go, because he’s in the habit of letting her do whatever 
she wants to do, fancying (and she fancies it, too) that he 
is master. You see, we thought it was only a fatigue- 
headache. Foolishly, we didn’t connect it with the 
sting, for Julian O’Farrell was bitten, too, and didn’t 
complain at all. 

Well, we set out for Soissons yesterday morning (I write 
again at night) leaving all our luggage at the hotel in 
Compiegne. It was quite a safe and uneventful run, for 
the Germans stopped shelling Soissons temporarily some 
time ago, when they were obliged to devote their whole 
attention to other places. The road was good, and the 
day a dream of Indian summer, when war seemed more 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


269 


than ever out of place in such a world. If Mother Beckett 
looked ill, we didn’t notice, because she wore her dust- 
veil. The same officer was with us who’d been our guide 
last time, and we felt like friends, as he explained, with 
those vivid gestures Frenchmen have, just how the 
Germans in September, 1914, marched from Laon upon 
; Soissons — marched fast, singing, yelling, wild to take a 
city so important that the world would be impressed. 
Why, it would be— they thought— as if the whole Ile-de- 
France were in their grasp! The next step would be to 
Paris, goal of all Germanic invasions since Attila. 

It’s an engaging habit of Mother Beckett’s to punctuate 
exciting stories like this with little soft sighs of sympathy: 
but the graphic war descriptions given by our lieutenant 
left her cold. Even when we came into the town, and 
began to go round it in the car, she was heavily silent, not 
an exclamation! And we ought to have realized that 
this was strange, because Soissons nowadays is a sight to 
strike the heart a hammer-blow. 

Of course the place isn’t older than Rheims. It’s of the 
same time and the same significance. But its face looks 
! older in ruin — such features as haven’t been battered out 
of shape. There’s the wonderful St. Jean-des-Vignes, 
which should have interested the little lady, because the 
great namesake of her family St. Thomas a Beckett, lived 
there, when it was one of Soissons’ four famous abbeys. 
There’s the church of St. Leger, and the grand old gates of 
St. Medard, to say nothing of the cathedral itself. And 
then there’s the history, which goes back to the Suessiones 
who owned twelve towns, and had a king whose power 
, carried across the sea, all the way to Britain. If Mother 


270 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Beckett doesn’t know much about history, she loves 
being in the midst of it, and hearing talk of it. But when 
our Frenchman told us a story of her latest favourite, King 
Clovis, she had the air of being asleep behind her thick 
blue veil. It was quite a good story, too, about a gold 
vase and a bishop. The gold vase had been stolen in the 
sack of the churches, after the battle of Soissons, when 
Roman rule was ended in France. St. Remi begged 
Clovis to give the vase back. But the booty was being 
divided, and the soldier who had the vase refused to sur- 
render it to a mere monarch. “You’ll get what your 
luck brings you, like the rest of us ! ” said he, striking the 
vase so hard with his battle-axe that it was dented, and 
its beauty spoiled. Clovis swallowed the insult, that 
being the day of soldiers, not of kings : but he didn’t for- 
get; and he kept watch upon the man. A year later, to 
the day, the excuse he’d waited for came. The soldier’s 
armour was dirty, on review; Clovis had the right as a 
general to reproach and punish him, so snatching the man’s 
battle-axe, the king crushed in the soldier’s head. “I 
do to you with the same weapon what you did to the gold 
vase at Soissons ! ” he said. 

It wasn’t until we had seen everything, and had spent 
over an hour looking at the martyred cathedral, from 
every point of riew, inside and out, that Mother Beckett 
confessed her suffering. “Oh, Molly!” she gasped, 
leaning on my arm, “I’m so glad there’s only one tower, 
and not two ! That is, I’m glad, as it was always like that, 

“Why,” I exclaimed, “how odd of you, dearest! I 
know it’s considered one of the best cathedrals in France, 
though it isn’t a museum of sculpture, hke Rheims. But 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 271 

the single tower worries me, it looks so unfinished. Fm 
not glad there’s only one ! ” 

“You would be if you felt like I do,” she moaned. 
“If there was another tower, we’d have to spend double 
time looking at it, and in five minutes more I should have 
to faint! Oh no, I’ve stood everything so far, not to dis- 
appoint any one, but I couldn't see another tower ! ” 

With that, she did faint, or nearly, then came to herself, 
and apologized for bothering us! Father Beckett hardly 
spoke, but his face was gray-white with fear, and he held 
the fragile creature in his arms as if she were his last link 
with the life of this world. 

We got her back into the car; and the man who had 
shown us the cathedral said that there was an hotel within 
five minutes’ motoring distance. It was not first rate, he 
explained, but officers messed there and occasionally 
wives and mothers of officers stayed there. He thought 
we might be taken in and made fairly comfortable; and 
to be sure we didn’t miss the house, he rode on the step of 
the car, to show us the way. 

It was a sad way, for we had to pass hillocks of plaster 
and stone which had once been streets, but we had eyes 
only for Mother Beckett’s face. Father Beckett and I: 
and even Brian seemed to look at her. Sirius, too, for 
he would not go into the Red Cross taxi with the others! 
Brian, whom in most things the dog obeys with a pathetic 
eagerness, couldn’t get him to do that: and when I said, 
“Oh, his eyes are tragic. He thinks you’re going to send 
him away, never to see you again!” Brian didn’t insist. 
So the dog sat squeezed in among us, knowing perfectly 
woF that we were anxious about the little lady who patted 


272 


EVERYMAN LAND 


him so often, and unpatriotically saved him lumps of sugar. 
He licked her small fingers, clasped by her husband, and 
attracting Mother Beckett’s attention perhaps kept her 
from fainting again. 

Well, we got to the hotel, which was really more of a 
pension than an hotel, and Madame Bornier, the elderly 
woman in deep mourning who was la patronne, was kind 
and helpful. Her best room had been made ready for 
the wife of an oflScer just coming out of hospital, but 
there would be time to prepare another. Our dear invalid 
was carried upstairs in her husband’s arms, and I put her 
to bed while a doctor was sent for. Of course, we had no 
permission to spend a night at Soissons, but I began to- 
foresee that we should have to stay unless we were turned 
out by the military authorities. 

When the doctor came — a mHecin major fetched from 
a hospital by our officer-guide — ^he said that Madame was 
suffering from malarial symptoms; she must have been 
poisoned. So then of course we remembered the sting on 
her throat. He examined it, looked rather grave, and 
warned Father Beckett that Madame sa femme would not 
be able to travel that day. She had a high temperature, 
and at best must have a day or two of repose, with no food 
save a little boiled milk. 

Soissons seemed the last place in France to hope for 
milk of any description, but the doctor promised it from 
the hospital if it couldn’t be got elsewhere, and added with 
pride that Soissons was not without resources. “When 
the Germans came three years ago,” he said, “most of 
the inhabitants had fled, taking what they could carry. 
Only seven hundred souls were left, out of fifteen thousand. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


273 


but many have come back: we have more than two 
thousand now, and some of them behaved like heroes and 
heroines. Oh yes, we may almost say that life goes on 
normally! You shall have all the milk you need for 
Madame.” 

When she had taken some medicine, and smiled at him. 
Father Beckett left his wife in my care, and rushed off to 
arrange about permission to stop. The midecin major 
and our officer-guide were useful. After telephoning from 
the military hospital to headquarters, everything was 
arranged; and we were authorized to remain in Soissons, 
at our own risk and peril. Madame Bornier prepared 
rooms for us all; but there weren’t enough to go round, 
so Brian and Julian O’Farrell were put together, and 
Dierdre and I ! (She, by the way, is in bed at this moment, 
whether asleep or not I don’t know; but if not she is pre- 
tending. Her lashes are very long, and she looks prettier 
than I ever saw her look before. But that may be because 
I like her better. I told you, that after what she did for 
Brian I could never dislike that girl again: but there has 
been another incident since then, about which I will tell 
you to-morrow. You know, I’m not easily tired, but this 
is our second night at Soissons. I sat up all last night 
with Mother Beckett, and oh, how glad I was. Padre, that 
Fate had forced me to train as a nurse ! I’ve been glad — 
thankful — ever since the war: but this is the first time my 
gladness has been so personal. Brian’s illness was in 
hospital. I could do nothing for him. But you can 
hardly think what it has meant to me, to know that I’ve 
been of real use to this dear woman, that I’ve been able to 
spare her suffering. Before, I had no right to her love. 


274 


EW.RY]\L\X’S LAND 


I*d stolen it. Now, maybe I am beginning to earn a little 
of the affection which she and Father Beckett give me. 

I was aU “keyed up” when I began to write to you 
to-night, Padre; but I was supposed to spend my three 
hours “off” in sleep. One hour is gone. Even if I 
can’t sleep, I shall pass the other two trying to rest, in 
my narrow bed, which is close to Dierdre’s. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


T his is the next day. Mother Beckett is better, 
and I’ve been praised by the viSdecin major for 
my nursing. We’ve got our luggage from 
Compiegne, and may be here for days. We shall miss the 
pleasure of travelling to Amiens with the war corre- 
spondents, who must go without us, and we women will 
get no glimpse of the British front ! 

Now I’m going to tell you about the incident which has 
made me almost love Dierdre O’Farrell — a miracle, it 
would have seemed two weeks ago, when my best mental 
pet name for her was “httle cat!” 

When I wrote last night, I mentioned that the room 
Mother Beckett has in this httle hotel had been intended 
for the wife of a French officer coming out of hospital. 
Another room was prepared for that lady, and it happened 
to be the one next door to Mother Beckett’s. Through the 
thin partition wall I heard voices, a man’s and a woman’s, 
talking in French. I couldn’t make out the words — in 
fact, I tried not to! — ^but the woman’s tones were soft 
and sweet as the coo of a dove. I pictured her beautiful 
and young, and I was sure from her way of speaking that 
she adored her husband. The two come into my story 
presently, but I think it should begin with a walk that 
Brian and Dierdre (and Sirius, of course) took together. 
With me shut up in Mother Beckett’s room, my bhnd 
275 


276 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


brother and Julian O’Earrell’s sister were thrown more 
closely together even than before. I’m sure Julian saw to 
that, eliminating himself as he couldn’t do when travelling 
all three in the Red Cross taxi! Perhaps Dierdre and 
Brian had never been alone in each other’s company so 
long; and Brian found the chance he’d wished for, to get 
at the real girl, behind her sulky “ camouflage.” 

He has repeated the whole conversation to me, because 
he wanted me to know Dierdre as he has learned to know 
her; and I shall write everything down as I remember it, 
though the words mayn’t be precisely right. Never was 
there any one like Brian for drawing out confidences from 
shut-up souls (except you^ Padre!) if he chooses to open 
his own soul, for that end; and apparently he thought it 
worth while in the case of Dierdre. He began by telling 
her things about himself — ^his old hopes and ambitions 
and the change in them since his blindness. He confessed 
to the girl (as he confessed to me long ago) how at first he 
wished desperately to die, because life without eyesight 
wasn’t life. He has so loved colour, and beauty, and 
success in his work had been so close, that he felt he 
couldn’t endure blindness. 

“I came near being a coward,” he said. “A man who 
puts an end to his life because he’s afraid to face it is a 
coward. So I tried to see if I could readjust the balance. 
I fell back on my imagination — and it saved me. Im- 
agination was always my best friend ! It took me by the 
hand and led me into a garden — a secret sort of garden 
that belongs to the blind, and to no one else. It’s the 
place where the spirits of colour and the spirits of flowers 
live — the spirit of music, too — and all sorts of beautiful 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


m 


strange things which people who’ve never been blind can’t 
see — or even hear. They’re not Hhings," exactly. They’re 
more like the reality behind the things: God’s thoughts 
of things as they should be, before He created them; artists’ 
thoughts of their pictures; musicians’ thoughts of their 
compositions — all better than the things resulting from the 
thoughts. Nothing in the outside world is as wonderful as 
what grows in that garden! I couldn’t go on being un- 
happy there. Nobody could — once he’d found the way in.” 

“It must be hard finding the way in!” Dierdre said. 

“It is at first — alone, without help. That’s why, if I 
can, I want to help my fellow blind men to get there.” 

“Only men? Not women, too? ” 

“I’ve never met a blind woman. Probably I never 
shall.” 

“You’re talking to one this minute! When I’m with 
you, I always feel as if I were blind, and you could see.” 

“You’re unjust to yourself.” 

“No, but I’m unjust to you — I mean, I have been. I 
must tell you before we go on, because you’re too kind, 
too generous. I’m blind about lots of things, but I do 
see that, now. I see how good you are. I used to think 
you were too good to be true — that you must be a 'poseur. 
I was always waiting for the time when you’d give your- 
self away — when you’d show yourself on the same level 
with my brother and me.” 

“But I am on the same level.” 

“ Don’t say it ! I don’t feel that horrid, bitter wish now. 
I’m glad you’re higher than we are. It makes me better 
to look up to the place where you are. But I wish I 
could get nearer.” 


278 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“You are very near. We’re friends, aren’t we? You 
don’t really mind because I’m from the North and you 
from the South, and because we don’t quite agree about 
politics?” 

“I’d forgotten about politics between you and me! 
But there are other distances. Do take me into your 
garden. You say it belongs only to blind people; but if I 
am blind — with a different kind of blindness, and worse — 
can’t I get there with you? I need such a garden, dread- 
fully. I’m so disappointed in life.” 

“Tell me how you’re unhappy, and how you’ve been 
disappointed,” said Brian. “Then perhaps we can find 
the right fiowers to cure you, in the garden.” 

So she told him what Julian had told me: about trying 
to get on the stage, and not succeeding, and realizing that 
she couldn’t act; feeling that there was no vocation, no 
place for her anywhere. To comfort the girl, Brian opened 
the gate of his garden of the blind, and gave her its secrets, 
as he has given them to me. He explained to her his trick 
of “seeing across far spaces,” with the eyes of his mind, 
and heart: saying aloud, to himself, names of glorious 
places — “Athens — ^Rome — Venice,” and going there in 
the airship of imagination; calling up visions of rose-sunset 
light on the yellowing marble of the Acropolis, or moonlight 
in the Pincian gardens, with great umbrella-pines like blots 
of ink on steel, or the opal colours shimmering deep down, 
under the surface of the Grand Canal. He made Dierdre 
understand his way of “listening to a landscape,” knowing 
by the voice of the wind what trees it touched; the buzz 
of olive leaves bunched like hives of silver bees against the 
blue; the sea-murmur of pines; the skeleton swish of 


279 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 

palms; the gay, dancing rustle of poplars. And he showed 
her how he gathered beauty and colour from words, which 
made pictures in his brain. 

“I never thought of all these things when I could see 
pictures with my eyes — and paint them with my hands,” 
he said. And perhaps he gave a sigh for the past, which 
touched Dierdre’s heart as the wind, in his fancy, touched 
the trees. “Couldn’t you use your old knowledge, and 
learn to paint without seeing?” she asked. “You might 
have a line for the horizon, and with someone to mix your 
colours under your directions — someone who’d tell you 
where to find the reds, where the greens, and so on, some- 
one to warn you if you went wrong. You might make 
wonderful effects.” 

“I’ve thought of that,” said Brian. “I’ve hoped — it 
might be. Sometime, when this trip is over, I may ask 
my sister’s help ” 

‘“ Oh, your sister’s ! ” Dierdre broke in. “ But she may 
marry. Or she may go back to nursing again. I wish I 
could help you. It would make me happy. It would be 
helping myself, more than you! And we could begin soon. 
I could buy you paints from a list you’d give me. If 
we succeeded, you could surprise your sister and the 
Becketts. It would be splendid.” 

Brian agreed that it would be splendid, but he said that 
his sister must be “in” it, too. He wouldn’t have secrets 
from her, even for the pleasure of a surprise. 

“She won’t let me help you,” Dierdre said. “She’ll 
want to do everything for you herself.” 

Brian assured the girl that she was mistaken about his 
sister. “She’s mistaken about you, too,” he added. 


280 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“ You’ll see ! Molly’ll be grateful to you for inventing such 
a plan for me. She’ll want you to be the one to carry it 
out.” 

No argument of his could convince the girl, however. 
They came back to the hotel at last, after a walk by 
the river, closer friends than before, but Dierdre depressed, 
if no longer sulky. She seemed in a strange, tense mood, 
as though there were more she wished to say — if she 
dared. 

Dusk was falling (this was evening of the day we arrived* 
you must realize. Padre) and Brian admitted that he was 
tired. He’d taken no such walk since he came out of 
hospital, weeks and weeks ago. 

“Let’s go and sit in the salon, to rest a few minutes and 
finish our talk,” he proposed. “We’re almost sure to 
have the room to ourselves.” 

But for once Brian’s intuition was at fault. There were 
two persons in the little salon, a lady writing letters at a 
desk by the window, and a French officer who had drawn 
the one easy chair in the room in front of a small wood fire. 
This fire had evidently not existed long, as the room was 
cold, with the grim, damp chill of a place seldom occu- 
pied or opened to the air. 

As Dierdre led Brian in, the lady at the desk glanced up 
at the newcomers, and the officer in the big chair turned 
his head. The woman was young and very remarkable 
looking, with the pearl-pale skin of a true Parisian, large 
dark eyes under clearly sketched black brows, and masses 
of prematurely white hair. 

For a second, Dierdre thought this beautiful hair must 
be blonde, as the woman could not be more than twenty- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 281 

eight; but the light from the window fell full upon the 
silver ripples, blanching them to dazzling whiteness. 

“What a lovely creature,” the girl thought. “What 
can have happened to turn her hair white? ” 

As for the man, Dierdre took an instant dislike to him, 
for his selfishness. His face was burned a deep, ruddy 
brown, and his eyes, lit by the red glow of the fire, were 
bright with a black, bead-like brightness. They stared so 
directly, so unblinkingly at Brian, that Dierdre was vexed. 
She was his chosen friend, his confidante, his champion 
now ! Not even Sirius could be more fiercely devoted than 
she, who had to atone for her past injustice. She was angry 
that blind Brian should be thus coldly stared at, and that 
a man in better health than he should calmly sprawl in the 
best chair, screening the fire. 

By this time. Padre, you will have learned enough about 
Dierdre O’Farrell to know what her temper is ! She forgot 
that a stranger might not realize Brian’s blindness at first 
sight in a room where the dusk was creeping in, and she 
spoke sharply, in her almost perfect French. 

“There’s quite a nice fire,” she said, “and I should have 
thought there was room for everybody to enjoy it, but it 
seems there’s only enough for one ! We’d better try the 
salle a manger, instead, I suppose.” 

Brian, puzzled, paused at the door, his hand on Sirius’s 
head, Dierdre standing in front of them both like a ruffled 
sparrow. 

The French offlcer straightened up in his chair with an 
astonished look, but did not rise. It was the woman by 
the window (Dierdre had not connected her with the man 
])y the fire) who sprang to her feet. “Mademoiselle,” sh«# 


'282 


E\^RY]MAN’S LAND 


said quietly, in a voice of exquisite sweetness, “my hus- 
band would be the first one in the world to move, and give 
his place to others, if he had known that he was monopK)liz- 
ing the fire. But he did not know. It was I who placed 
him there. Those eyes of his which look so bright are 
made of crystal. He lost his sight at the Chemin des 
Dames.” 

As she spoke, choking on the last words, the woman with 
white hair crossed the room swiftly, and caught the hand 
of her husband, which was stretched out as if groping for 
hers. He stumbled to his feet, and she stood defending 
him like a gentle creature of the woods at bay. 

Perhaps at no other moment of her life would Dierdre 
O’FarreU have been struck with such poignant repentance. 
That she, who had just been shown the secret, inn er heart 
of one blind man, should deliberately wound another, 
seemed more than she could bear, and live. 

Brian remained silent, partly because he was still con- 
fused, and partly to give Dierdre the chance to speak, 
which he felt instinctively she would wish to seize. 

She took a step forward, then stopped, with a sob, 
shamed tears stinging her eyes. “Will you forgive me?” 
she begged. “ I would rather have died than hurt a blind 
man, or — or any one who loves a blind man. Lately I’ve 
been finding out how sacred blindness is. I ought to have 
guessed, Madame, that you were with him — ^that you 
were his wife. I ought to have known that only a great 
grief could have turned your wonderful hair white — ^you, 
so young ” 

“ Her hair white ! ” cried the blind officer. “ No, I’ll not 
believe it Suzanne, tell this lady she’s mistaken. I 


EVERYMAN LAND 


283 


remember, in some lights, it was the palest gold, almost 
silver — ^your beautiful hair that I fell in love with ” 

His voice broke. No one answered. There fell a dead 
silence, and Dierdre had time to realize what she had done. 
She had been cruel as the grave! She had accused a help- 
less bhnd man of selfishness; and not content with that, 
on top of all she had given away the secret that a brave 
woman’s love had hidden. 

“ Suzanne — ^you don’t speak ! ” 

“Oh!” the trembling woman tried to laugh. “Of 
course. Mademoiselle is mistaken. That goes without 
saying.” 

“Yes — I — of course Dierdre echoed. “It was the 
fight — deceived me.” 

“And now,” said the blind man slowly, “you are trying 
to deceive me — ^you are both trying! Suzanne, why did 
you keep it from me that your hair had turned white with 
grief.^ Didn’t you know I’d love you more, for such a 
proof of love for me? ” 

“Indeed, I — oh, you mustn’t think ” she began to 

stammer. “I loved your dear eyes as you loved my hair. 
But I love it twice as much now. I ” 

He cut her short. “I don’t think. I know. Cherie, 
you need have had no fear. I shall worship you after 
this.” 

“ She could never have been so lovely before. Her hair 
is like spun glass,” Dierdre tried to atone. “People would 
turn to look at her in the street. Monsieur le Capitaine, 
you should be proud of such a beautiful wife.” 

“I am,” the man answered, “proud of her beauty, more 
proud of her heart.” 


284 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“But it is I who am proud!” the woman caught him up. 
“He has lost his dear eyes that all women admired, yet 
he has won honours such as few men have. What does 
it matter about my poor hair? You can see by the ribbons 
on his breast, Mademoiselle, what he is — what he has done 

for his country. You also. Monsieur, you see ” 

“I don’t see, Madame, because I, too, am blind,” said 
Brian. “But I feel — I feel that your husband has won 
something which means more than his eyes, more than all 
his honours and decorations : a great love.” 

“You are blind F* exclaimed the Frenchwoman. “I 
should never have guessed. Ah, Madame, it is I who must 
now ask your pardon! I called you ‘Mademoiselle.’ 
Already I had forgiven you what you said in error. But 
I did not understand, or the forgiveness would have 
been easier. Your first thought was for your husband — 
your blind husband — just as my thought always is and 
will be for mine ! You wanted him to have a place by the 
fire. Your temper was in arms, not for yourself, but 
for him — ^his comfort. How well I understand now! 
Madame, you and I have the same cross laid upon us. 
But it’s a cross of honour. It is le croix de guerre / ” 

“I wish I had a right to it!” Dierdre broke out. 

“I haven’t, because he is not my husband. He doesn’t 
care for me — except maybe, as a friend. But to atone to 
him for injustice, to punish myself for hurting you^ I’ll con- 
fess something. I’d marry him to-morrow, blind as he is — 
perhaps because he is blind! — and be happy and proud all 
my life — if he would have me. Only , — I know hewonHF 
“ My child ! I care too much for you,” Brian answered, 
after an instant of astonished silence, “far too much to 


285 


^EVERYMAN’S LAND 

take you at your word. Some men might — but not I! 
Monsieur le Capitaine here, and Madame, were husband 
and wife before their trouble came. That is different ” 

“No!” cried the woman whose name was Suzanne. 
“It is not different. My husband’s the one man on earth 
for me. If we were not married — if he had lost his legs 
and arms as well as his eyes, I’d still want to be his wife — 
want it more than a kingdom.” 

“You hear. Monsieur,” her husband said, laughing a 
little, and holding her close, with that perfect independence 
of onlookers which the French have when they’re 
thoroughly in love. 

“I hear, Madame,” said Brian. “But you. Monsieur le 
Capitaine — ^you would not have accepted the sacri- 
fice ” 

“I’m not sure I could have resisted,” the Frenchman 
smiled. 

“You love her! — that is why,” Dierdre said. “My 
friend — doesn’t love me. He never could. I’m not 
worthy. No one good could love me. If he knew the worst 
of me, he’d not even be my friend. And I suppose, after 
this, he won’t be. If, by and by, I’m not ashamed of myself 
for what I’ve said, he’ll be ashamed for me, because ” 

“Don’t!” Brian stopped her. “You know I mustn’t 
let myself love you, Dierdre. And you don’t really love 
me. It’s only pity and some kind of repentance — for 
nothing at all — that you feel. But we’ll be greater 
friends than ever. I understand just why you spoke, and 
it’s going to help me a lot — like a strong tonic. You 
must have known it would. And if Monsieur and 
IMadame have forgiven us ” 


286 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“Us? What have you done? If they’ve forgiven 
»» 

me 

“They have, indeed, forgiven,” said the blind French- 
man. “They even thank you. If possible you’ve drawn 
them closer together than before.” 

Brian searched for Dierdre’s hand, and found it. “Let 
us go now, and leave them,” he whispered. 

So they went away, and Brian softly shut the door of the 
little salon. 

“I did mean every word I said!” the girl blurted out, 
turning upon him in the hall. “But — I shouldn’t have 
dared say it if I hadn’t been sure you didn’t care. And 
even if you did care — or could — ^your sister wouldn’t let 
you . She knows me exactly as I am . ’ ’ 

“She shall know you as you are — my true and brave 
little friend ! ” Brian said. 

He can find his way about wonderfully, even in a house 
with which he is merely making acquaintance: besides, 
Sirius was with him. But he felt an immense tenderness 
for Dierdre after that desperate confession. He didn’t 
wish the girl to fancy that he could get on without her 
just then, or that he thought she had any reason for run- 
ning away from him. He asked if she would take him to 
his room, so that he might rest there, alone, remembering 
an exquisite moment of his life. 

“ It’s wonderful to feel that for a beautiful girl like you— 
blind as I am, I am a man /” he said. “Thank you with 
all my heart — for everything.” 

“Who told you I was beautiful?” Dierdre fiung the 
question at him. 

“My sister Mary told me,” Brian answered. “Be- 


! EVERYMAN’S LAND 


287 


sides — 1 felt it. A man aoes feef such things — perhaps all 
the more if he is blind.’* 

“Your sister Mary?” the girl echoed. “She doesn’t 
think I’m beautiful. Or if she does, it’s against her 
will.” 

“It won’t be, after this.” 

“Why not ? You won’t tell her ” 

“ I’ll tell her to love you, and — to help me not to ! ” 

It was just then they came to Brian’s door, and Dierdre 
fled, Sirius staring after her in dignified surprise. 

But Dierdre herself came to me at once, and told me 
everything, with a kind of proud defiance. 

“I do love your brother,” she boasted. “I would marry 
him if he’d have me. I don’t care what you think of me, 
or what you say ! ” 

“Why, I love you for loving him,” I threw back at her. 
“ That’s what I think of you — and that’s what I say.” 

I was sincere. Padre. Yet I don’t see how they can ever 
marry, even if Brian should learn to love the girl enough. 
Neither one has a penny — and — Brian is blind. Who can 
tell if he will ever get his sight again? I wish Dierdre 
hadn’t come into our lives in just the way she did come! 
I wish she weren’t Julian O’Farrell’s sister! I hope she 
won’t be pricked by that queer conscience of hers to tell 
Brian any secrets which concern me as well as Julian and 
herself. And I hope — whatever happens! — that I shan’t 
be mean enough to be jealous. But — with such a new, 
exciting “friendship” for Brian’s prop, it seems as if, for 
me — Othello’s occupation would be gone 1 


CHAPTER XXVII 


W E’RE at Amiens, where we came by way of 
Montdidier and Moreuil; and nearly two weeks 
have dragged or slipped away since I wrote last. 
Meanwhile a thousand things have happened. But I’ll 
begin at the beginning and write on till I am called by 
Mother Beckett. 

We stopped at Soissons three more days after I told you 
about Dierdre and Brian, and Captain Devot and his wife. 
Not only did they forgive Dierdre — those two — but they 
took her to their hearts, perhaps more for Brian’s sake 
than her own. I was introduced to them, and they were 
kind to me, too. Of the blind man I have a beautiful 
souvenir. I must tell you about it. Padre ! 

The evening before we left Soissons (when the doctor 
had pronounced Mother Beckett well enough for a short 
journey) I had an hour in the stuffy little salon with 
Dierdre and Brian and the Devots. We sat round the 
fire — ^plenty of room for us all, in a close circle — and Cap- 
tain Devot began to talk about his last battle on the 
Chemin des Dames. Suddenly he realized that the story 
was more than his wife could bear — for it was in that 
battle he lost his eyes! How he realized what she was 
enduring, I don’t know, for she didn’t speak, or even sigh, 
and Brian sat between them; so he couldn’t have known 
she was trembling. It must have been some electric 
288 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


289 


current of sympathy between the husband and wife, I 
suppose — a magnetic flash to which a blind man would 
be more sensitive than others. Anyhow, he suddenly 
stopped speaking of the flght, and told us instead about a 
dream he had the night before the battle — a dream where 
he saw the ladies for whom “The Ladies’ Way” was made, 
go riding by, along the “ Chemin des Dames.” 

“In silks and satins the ladies went 
Where the breezes sighed and the poplars bent. 

Taking the air of a Sunday morn 
Midst the red of poppies and gold of corn — 

Flowery ladies in gold brocades. 

With negro pages and serving maids. 

In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan. 

With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan. 

Patch and powder and trailing scent. 

Under the trees the ladies went. 

Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed. 

As they took the air of the Ladies’ Road.” 

That verse came from Punchy not from Captain Devot. 
I happen to remember it because it struck my fancy when 
I read it, and added to the romance of the road made for 
Louis XV’s daughters — daughters of France, where 
now so many sons of France have died for France! But 
the ladies of Captain Devot ’s dream were like that, travel- 
ling with a gorgeous cavalcade, and as they rode, they were 
listening to a song about the old Abbey of Vauclair on the 
plateau of the Craonne. When they came to a place 
where the poppies clustered thickest, the three princesses 
insisted on stopping — Princess Adelaide, Princess Sophia, 


290 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Princess Victoire. They wished to gather the flowers to 
take with them to the Chateau de Bove, where they were 
going to visit their dame d’honneur, Madame de Nar- 
bonne, but their guards argued that already it was growing 
late: they had better hurry on. At this the girls laughed 
silvery laughter. What did time matter to them.^ This 
was their road, made and paved for their pleasure ! They 
would not be hurried along it. No indeed; to show that 
time as well as the road was theirs, to do with as they hked, 
they would get down and make a chain of poppies long 
enough to stretch across the whole plateau before it dipped 
to the valley of the Aillette ! 

So, in Captain Devot’s dream, the princesses descended, 
and they and all their pretty ladies began weaving a chain 
of poppies. As they wove, the flower-chain fell from their 
little white fingers and trailed along the ground in a crim- 
son line. The sun dropped toward the west, and thunder 
began to roll: still they worked on! Their gentlemen-in- 
charge begged them to start again, and at last they rose 
up petulantly to go; but they had stayed too late. The 
storm burst. Lightning flashed; thunder roared; rain 
fell in torrents; and — strange to see — the poppy petals 
melted, so that the long chain of flowers turned to a liquid 
stream, red as a river of blood. The princesses were 
frightened and began to cry. Their tears fell into tLo 
crimson flood. Captain Devot, who seemed in his dreai:: 
to be one of the ladies’ attendants, jumped from his horse 
to pick up the princesses’ tears, which turned into little, 
rattling stones as they fell. With that, he waked. The 
princesses were gone — “all but Victoire,'' he said, s mili ng, 
“she shall stay with us ! The thunder was the thunder 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


291 


of German guns. The poppies were there — and the blood 
was there. So also were the stones that had been the 
princesses’ tears. They lie all along the Chemin des 
Dames to this day. I gathered some for my wife, and if 
^ you like she will give a few to you, ladies — souvenirs of 
the Ladies’ Way ! ” 

Of course we did like; so Dierdre and I each have a 
small, glistening gray stone, with a faint splash of red 
upon it. I would not sell mine for a pearl ! 

Father Beckett proposed to take his wife back to Paris; 
but while she rested after the fever, industriously she built 
up another plan. You remember. Padre, my telling you 
that the Becketts were negotiating for a chateau, before 
they arrived in France to visit their son.? When they 
heard that Jim had fallen, they no longer cared to live 
in this chateau (which was to let, furnished), nevertheless, 
they felt bound in honour to stick to their bargain. Well, 
at Soissons, Mother Beckett had it “borne in upon her” 
that Jim would wish his father and mother to stay at the 
old house he had loved and coveted for himself. 

“I can’t go back across the sea and settle down at home 
while this war goes on!” she said. “Home just wouldn’t 
be home. It’s too far away from Jim. I don’t mean from 
his body,' she went on. “His body isn’t Jim, I know! 
I’ve thought that out, and made myself realize the truth 
of it. But it’s Jim’s spirit I’m talking about, Father. I 
guess his soul — Jim himself — won’t care to be flitting 
back and forth, crossing the ocean to visit us, while his 
friends are fighting in France and Belgium, to save the 
world. I know my boy well enough to be sure he’s too 


292 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


strong to change much just because he is what some folks 
call ‘dead’; and he’d like us to be near. Paris won’t 
do for me. No city would. I’d be too restless there. 
Do, do let’s go and live till the end of the war in Jim’s 
chateau! That’s what he’s wanting. I feel it every 
minute.” 

I was in the room when she made this appeal to her 
husband, and I longed to put into their hearts the thought 
Jack Curtis had put into mine. But, of course, I dared 
not. It would have been cruel. Jack Curtis had nothing 
to go upon except his impression — the same impression I 
myself have at times, of Jim’s vital presence in the midst 
of life. I have it often, though never quite so strongly 
as that night in Paris, when he would not let me kill 
myself. 

It wasn’t difficult to make Father Beckett consent to 
the new plan. He told me afterward that his own great 
wish was to find Jim’s grave, when the end of the war 
would make search possible. Beckett interests were 
being safeguarded in America. They would not suffer 
much from his absence. Besides, business no longer 
seemed vitally important to him as of old. Money mat- 
tered little now that Jim was gone. 

He would have abandoned his visit to the British front, 
since Mother Beckett could not have the glimpse half 
promised by the authorities. But she would not let him 
give it up. “ Molly ” would take good care of her. When 
she could move, we would all go to Amiens. There she 
and I could be safely left for a few days, while Brian and 
Father Beckett were at the front. As for Julian 
O’Farrell and Dierdre, at first it appeared as if the little 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


293 


lady had left them out of her calculations. But I might 
have known — knowing her — that she wouldn’t do that 
for long. 

She believed implicitly in their Red Cross mission, 
which, ever since the little car joined the big one, has been 
constantly aided with Beckett money and Beckett in- 
fluence. Julian would, she supposed, wish to “carry on 
his good work,” when our trip came to an end. But as 
he had no permission for the British front (he hadn’t cared 
to make himself conspicuous to the British authorities 
by asking for it!) he and Dierdre might like to keep us 
two women company at Amiens. By the time we wanted 
to leave. Mother Beckett confldently expected “Jim’s 
chdteau” to be ready for occupation, and Dierdre must 
visit “us” there indefinitely, while her brother dutifully 
continued distributing supplies to hospitals and refugees. 
(“Us,” according to Mother Beckett, meant Brian and me. 
Father Beckett and herself, for we now constituted the 
“family”!) Telegrams had given the Paris house-letting 
agency carte blanche for hasty preparations at the Chateau 
d’Andelle, where several old servants had been kept on as 
caretakers: and being a spoiled American millionairess, 
the little lady was confident that a week would see the 
house aired, warmed, staffed, and altogether habitable. 

“You wouldn’t object to having that poor little girl 
stay with us, would you, dear?” Mother Beckett asked 
me, patting my hand when she had revealed her ideas 
concerning the O’Farrells. 

“Oh, no,” I answered, looking straight into her inquiring 
eyes, and trying not to change colour. “But you 
shouldn’t speak as if I had any right ” 


294 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 

“You have every right!” she cut me short. “Aren’t 
you our daughter? ” 

“I love you and Father Beckett enough to be your 
daughter,” I said. “ But that gives me no right ” 

“It does. Your love for us, and ours for you. I don’t 
believe we could have hved through om* sorrow if it hadn’t 
been for you and Brian. He saved om reason by showing 
us what Jim would want us to do for the good of others. 
And he taught us what we couldn’t seem to realize fully, 
through religion, that death doesn’t count. Now, since 
I’ve been ill, I guess you’ve saved my life. And much as 
I want to see Jim, I want even more to live for Father. 
He needs me — and we both need you and Brian. You 
two belong to us, just as if you’d been given to us by Jim. 
We want to do what’s best for you both. I thought, for 
Brian, it would be good perhaps to have Dierdre ” 

“Perhaps,” I murmured, when she paused. 

“You’re not sure? I wasn’t at first. I mean, I wasn’t 
sure she was good enough. But since the night when she 
threw herself in front of him to keep off the dog, I saw she 
cared. Maybe she didn’t know it herself till then. But 
she’s known ever since. You’ve only to see the way she 
looks at him. And she’s growing more and more of a 
woman — Brian’s influence, and the influence of her love — 
such a great influence, dear! It might be for his happi- 
ness, if ” 

“I don’t think Brian would marry Dierdre or any girl, 
unless his sight came back,” I said. “He’s often told me 
he wouldn’t marry.” 

“Was that before he went to Paris with the O’Farrells? 
Things have been rather different since then — and a good 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 295 

deal different since the night we met Jack Curtis with 
Sirius.” 

“ I know,” I admitted. “ But if Brian wanted to change 
his mind about marrying, he couldn’t. Neither he nor 
Dierdre O’Farrell have a penny ” 

“Brian’s got as much as we have,” the dear woman 
assured me. 

“Do you think he’d take your money to marry on.^^ 
No, dearest! Brian’s very unworldly. So far, he hasn’t 
worried about finances for the present. The future is 
different. If he doesn’t get back his sight ” 

“But he will — he must!” she urged. “That great 
specialist you saw in Paris gave him hope. And then 
there’s the other one that your doctor friend recom- 
mended .” 

“He’s somewhere at the front. We can’t get at him 
now.” 

“We’ll get at him later,” Mother Beckett persisted. 
“ In the meantime — let’s give those two hearts the chance 
to draw together, if it’s best for them.” 

I could not go on objecting. One can’t, for long, when 
that little angel of a woman wants a thing — she who never 
wants anything for herself, only for others ! But I thought 
Fate might step between Brian and Dierdre — Fate, in 
the shape of Puck. I wasn’t at all sure that Julian O’Far- 
rell could be contented to leave his sister and continue 
his own wanderings. The Red Cross taxi had in truth 
been only a means to an end. I didn’t fancy that his 
devotion to duty would carry him far from the Chateau 
d’Andelle while Dierdre was comfortably installed in it. 
Unless he were invited to embusquer himself there, in our 


296 EVERYMAN’S LAND 

society, I expected a crash. Which shows how little I 
knew my Julian! 

When the plan was officially suggested to him, he agreed 
as if with enthusiasm. It was only when he’d consented 
to Dierdre’s visit at the chateau on the other side of the 
Somme, and promised to drop in now and then himself 
on his way somewhere else, that he allowed himself a 
second thought. To attract attention to it, he started, 
ran his hand through his hair, and stopped in the middle 
of a sentence. “I am heaven’s own fool!” he exclaimed. 

Of course Father Beckett wanted to know why. (This 
was two days before we started for Amiens.) Julian 
“registered reluctance.” Father Beckett persisted, and 
drew forth the information that Julian might have to cut 
short his career as a ministering Red Cross angel. “If 
it hadn’t been for you,” he said, “my funds and my 
supplies would have run short before this. You’ve 
helped me carry on. But I’m getting pretty close to 
the bone again now, I’m afraid. A bit closer and I shall 
have to settle down and give music lessons. That’s all 
I’m fit for in future! And Dierdre wouldn’t want me 
to set up housekeeping alone. While I’m on this Red 
Cross job it’s all right, but ” 

Of course Father Beckett broke in to say that there was 
no question of not carrying on. Money should be forth- 
coming for supplies as long as Julian felt inclined to drive 
the Red Cross taxi from one scene of desolation and dis- 
tress to another. Holidays must be frequent, and all 
spent at the Chateau d’Andelle. Let the future decide 
itself ! 

So matters were settled — on the surface. Julian was 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


297 


i ready to pose before an admiring audience as the self- 
sacrificing hero, giving all his time and energy to a noble 
; cause. Only his sister and I knew that he was the villain 
of the piece, and for different reasons neither of us could 
explain the mistake about his role. He was sure of us 
both; impudently, aggravatingly, yet (I can’t help it, 

I Padre!) amusingly sure of me. He tried to “isolate” 
me, as if I’d been a microbe while we were still at Soissons, 
and again just after Father Beckett and Brian went away 
from Amiens in the big gray car. There was something, 
something very special that he wished to say to me, I 
could tell by his eyes. But I contrived to thwart him. 
I never left Mother Beckett for a moment ! 

The first day at Amiens it was easy to keep out of his 
way altogether, for I was nurse as well as friend, and my 
dear little invalid was worn out after the journey from 
Soissons. She asked nothing better than to stop in her 
room. The next day, however, exciting news acted 
upon her like a tonic. The Amiens address had been 
wired to Paris, and in addition to a mass of letters (mostly 
for Father Beckett) there was a telegram from the Chateau 
d’Andelle, despatched by an agency messenger, who had 
been sent to Normandy. All was going well. The house 
would be ready on the date named. Two large boxes 
from the Ritz had safely arrived by grande vitesse. 

“Darling Jimmy’s own things!” Mother Beckett 
explained to me. “Do you remember my telling you 
we’d brought over to France the treasures out of his den 
at home?” 

I did remember. (Do I ever forget anything she says 
about Jim?) 


298 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“They were to be a surprise for him when he came to 
see us,” his mother went on, tears misting the blueness of 
her eyes. “Not furniture, you know, but just the little 
things he loved best in his rooms: some he had when he 
was a child, and others when he was growing up — and the 
picture your brother painted. When we heard — the 
news — and knew we shouldn’t see our boy again in this 
world, I couldn’t bear to open the boxes — though I was 
longing to cry over his dear treasures. They’ve been 
stored at the Ritz ever since. But the first thing I asked 
Father to do when we decided the other day to live in 
Jim’s chateau, after all — ^was to wire for the boxes to be 
sent there. I didn’t suppose they’d arrive so soon — ^in 
war time. Dear me, I can hardly wait id start, now! 
I feel as strong as a girl.” 

To prove this — or because she was restless — she begged 
to be taken out in a cab to see the town, especially the 
cathedral, which Brian had told her was the largest in 
Europe except St. Peter’s in Rome, St. Sophia in Con- 
stantinople, and something in Cologne which she didn’t 
want to remember! Julian O’Farrell and his sister must 
go with us, of course. It wouldn’t be kind to leave them 
to do their sightseeing alone. Besides, Julian was so 
good-natured, and said such funny things it would be 
pleasant to have his society. 

This arrangement made it difficult for me to glue myself 
to Mother Beckett’s side. Now and then she insisted 
upon getting out of the cab to try her strength, and 
Dierdre would obediently have taken her in tow, in order 
to hand me over to “Jule,” if I hadn’t been mulishly 
obstinate. I quite enjoyed manoeuvring to use my dear 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


299 


Tittle invalid as a sort of standing barrage against enemy- 
attacks, and even though Brian and I were parted for the 
first time since his blindness, I felt almost absurdly cheerful. 
It was so good to know that Mother Beckett was out of 
danger, and that it was I who had helped to drag her out! 
Besides, after all the stricken towns that have saddened 
our eyes, it was enlivening to be in one (as Mother Beckett 
said at Compiegne) with “whole houses.” In contrast, 
good St. Firmin’s ancient city looks almost as gay as Paris. 
Our hotel with its pleasant garden and the fine shops — 
(where it seems you can still buy every fascinating thing 
from newest jewellery and oldest curiosities, to Amiens’ 
special “roc” chocolates) — the long, arboured boulevards, 
the cobbled Streets, the quaint blue and pink houses of the 
suburbs, and the poplar-lined walk by the Somme, all, all 
have the friendliest air! Despite the crowds of soldiers 
in khaki and horizon blue who fill the streets and cafes, 
the place seems outside war. Even the stacked sandbags 
walling the west front and the side portals of the grandest 
cathedral in France suggest comfortable security rather 
than fear. The jackdaws and pigeons that used to 
be at home in the carvings, camp contentedly among 
the bags, or walk in the neglected grass where sleep 
the dead of long ago. I didn’t want to remember just 
then, or let any one else remember, that twenty miles away 
were the trenches and thousands of the dead of to-day ! 

Never can Amiens have been such a kaleidoscope of 
colourful animation since Henri II of France and Edward 
VI of England signed the treaty of peace here, with trains 
of diplomatists and soldiers of church and state and digni- 
fied rejoicings ! 


300 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


It wasn’t until we were inside the cathedral that I forgot 
my manoeuvrings. The soft, rich light gave such a bizarre 
effect to the sandbags protecting the famous choir carv- 
ings, that I was all eyes for a moment: and during that 
moment Julian must have signed to his sister to decoy 
Mother Beckett away from me. When I hauled my soul 
down from the soaring arches as one strikes a flag, there 
was Puck at my side and there were Mother Beckett and 
Dierdre disappearing behind sandbag-hillocks, in the 
direction of the celebrated Cherub. 

‘T suppose you want me jolly well to understand,” 
said Puck, smiling, “that even if your brother Brian and 
my sister Dare are fools over each other, you won’t be 
fooled into forgiving a poor, broken- voiced Pierrot.^ ” 

“I’ve nothing to forgive you for, personally,” I said. 
“Only ” 

“ Only, you don’t want to be friends ? ” 

“No, I don’t want to be friends,” I echoed. “Why 
can’t you be content with being treated decently before 
people, instead of following me about, trying always to 
bring upon yourself ” 

“A lamp might ask that question of a moth.” 

I laughed. “You’re less like a moth than any creature 
I ever met!” 

“You don’t believe I’m sincere.” 

“Do moths specialize in sincerity in the insect world?” 

“Yes,” Puck said, more gravely than usual. “Come 
to think of it, that’s just what they do. They risk their 
lives for the light they love. I ‘follow you about,’ as you 
put it, because I love you and want to persuade you that 
we’re birds of a feather, made for each other by nature 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 301 

and fate and our mutual behaviour. We belong together 
in life.” 

“Do you really believe you can blackmail me into a 
partnership?” I turned at bay. “You must have seen 
that I wanted to keep out of your way ” 

“Oh, I saw all right. You thought that I thought 
Amiens would be my great chance, and you made up 
your mind it shouldn’t be if you could help it. Well, you 
won’t be able to help it much longer, because I’ve got some- 
thing you want, and you can’t get it except through me.” 

“I doubt very much that I could want anything you 
have,” I said. 

“ Give your imagination wings.” 

“ You are always teasing me to guess things I don’t care 
to guess!” 

“Here comes Dierdre back with Mrs. Beckett so I 
won’t worry you to guess. I’ve got a message from the 
Wandering Jew. Do you want it, or don’t you? ” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


I F JULIAN had suddenly popped down an apple on 
the top of my head, a la Gessler and the son of Wil- 
liam Tell, and thereupon proceeded to shoot it off, I 
could have been no more amazed. For once he outflanked 
me, caught me completely off my guard! I saw by the 
impish gleam in his eye how delighted he was with himself. 

^‘Yes or no, please; quick!’’ he fired the next volley as I 
stood speechless. 

“Yes!” I gasped. “I do want the message — ^if it’s for 
me. But why should he send word through you.^ ” 

“He didn’t. I caught it as I might catch a homing 
carrier-pigeon. You know, my motto is ‘All’s fair in love 
and war.’ In my case, both exist — ^your fault! Besides, 
what I did was for your good.” 

“ What did you do — ^what did you dare to do? ” 

“Dare!” Puck mimicked my foolish fury. “ ‘Dare’ is 
such a melodramatic word from you to me. I can’t tell 
you now what I did, or the message — no time. But I’m 
in as much of a hurry as you are. When can I see you 
alone?” 

I hesitated, because it would be like him to cheat me with 
some trick, and chuckle at my rage. I couldn’t see how a 
message from Paul Herter for me had reached Julian 
O’Farrell, unless he’d intercepted a letter. It seemed far 
more likely that Puck was romancing, yet I felt in u.j 
302 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


303 


bones and heart and solar plexus that he wasn’t! I 
simply had to know — and in a flurry, before Mother 
Beckett and Dierdre were upon us, I said, “This after- 
noon, at three, when Mrs. Beckett is having her nap. 
I’ll meet you in the garden of the hotel.” 

Though I dash along with this story of mine. Padre, as if 
I went straight on describing the scene between Julian and 
me from beginning to end, without a break, it isn’t really 
so. I’ve been interrupted more than once, and may be 
again; but I shall tell you everything that’s happened since 
we came to Amiens, as if I wrote consecutively. You 
can understand better in that way, and help me with your 
strength and love, through your understanding, as I feel 
you do help, whenever I make you my confessions. Since 
I’ve begun to write you, as in old days when you were in 
the flesh, I’ve felt your advice come to me in electric 
flashes. I’m sure I don’t just imagine this. It’s real, dear 
Padre, and makes all the difference to me that a rope flung 
out over dark waters would make to a drowning man. 

At three o’clock I was in the garden. It was cold, but 
I didn’t care. Besides, I was too excited to feel the chill. 
I wanted to be out of doors because there would be people 
about, and no chance for Julian to try and kiss my hand- 
no vulgar temptation for me to box his ears ! 

He was already waiting, strolling up and down, smoking 
a cigarette which he threw away at sight of me. Evidently 
he’d decided on this occasion not to be frivolous ! 

I selected a seat safely commanded by many windows. 
“Now! ” I said, sitting down close to one end of the bench. 

Julian took the other end, but sat gazing straight at me 
without a word. There was an odd expression on his 


304 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


face. I didn’t know how to read it, or to guess what was 
to come. But there was nothing Puckish about the enemy 
at that moment. He looked nervous — almost as if he were 
afraid. I thought of something you told me when I was 
quite small. Padre: how the Romans of old used to send 
packets of good news bound with laurel, or of bad news, 
tied with the plumes of ravens. I stared into Julian O’Far- 
rell’s stare, and wished that he’d stuck a green leaf or a 
black feather in his buttonhole to prepare my mind. 

“Yes — now!” he echoed at last, as if he’d suddenly 
waked up to my challenge. “Well, a man blew into this 
hotel last night — a lame Frenchman with a face like a 
boiled ghost. I was writing an important telegram (I’ll 
tell you about that later), when I heard this person ask the 
concierge if a Miss Mary O’Malley was staying in the 
house. That made me open my eyes — because he was of 
the lower bourgeois class, and hadn’t the air of being — so 
to speak — in your set. It seemed as if ’twas up to me to 
tackle him; so I did. I introduced myself as a friend of 
Miss O’Malley’s, travelling with her party. I explained 
that Miss O’Malley was taking care of an old lady who’d 
been ill and was tired after a long journey. I asked if he’d 
like to give a message. He said he would. But first 
he began to explain who he was: an Alsatian by birth, 
named Muller, corporal in an infantry regiment; been a 
prisoner in Germany, I forget how long — taken wounded; 
leg amputated; and fitted with artificial limb in a Boche 
hospital; just exchanged for a grand blessi Boche, and re- 
patriated ; been in Paris on important business, apparently 
with the War Office — sounded more exciting than he 
looked! After Fd prodded the chap tactfully, he came 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


305 


back to the subject of the message: asked me if I knew 
Doctor Paul Herter. I said I did know him. Herter 
mended up my sister after an air raid. I inquired politely 
where Herter was, but Muller evaded that question. He 
led me to suppose he’d seen Herter in Paris; but putting 
two and two together, I got a different idea — altogether 
different.” 

Julian paused on those words, and tried piercingly to 
read my thoughts. But I made my face expressionless as 
the front of a shut-up house, with “to let unfurnished” 
over the door. 

“I expect you’ve guessed what my idea was, and I bet 
you know for a fact whether I was on the right track,” he 
ventured. 

“The only thing so far which I know for a fact,” I 
said, “is that you had no right to talk to the man at all. 
You should have sent for me at once.” 

“ You couldn’t have come if I had. Dierdre had told me 
about five minutes before that you were putting Mrs. 
Beckett to bed, and giving her a massage treatment with a 
rub-down of alcohol.” 

“ Why didn’t you ask the man to wait? ” 

“I did ask him if he could wait, and he said he couldn’t. 
He’d stopped at Amiens on purpose to deliver his message, 
and he had to catch a train on to Allonville, to where it 
seems his people have migrated.” 

“You asked him that because you hoped he couldn’t 
wait — ^and if he could, you’d have found some reason for 
not letting me meet him. You thought you saw a way of 
getting a new hold over me ! ” 

“Some such dramatic idea may have flitted through my 


806 


EVERYMAN’S LAND : 

head. I’ve often warned you, I am dramatic! I enjoy 
dramatizing life for myself and others I But honestly, he 
couldn’t wait for you to finish with Mrs. Beckett. I know 
too well how devoted you are to think you’d have left the 
old lady before you’d soothed her off to sleep.” 

“Where is the message?” I snatched Julian back to the 
point. 

“ In my brain at present.” 

“You destroyed the letter?” 

“There wasn’t a letter. Oh, make grappling hooks of 
your lovely eyes if you like 1 You can’t drag anything out 
of me that doesn’t exist. Herter’s message to you was 
verbal for safety. That was one thing set me thinking the 
men hadn’t met in Paris. Muller admitted going to a 
bank to get your address. The people there didn’t want 
to give it, but when he explained that it was important, 
and mentioned where he was going, they saw that he 
might have time to meet you at Amiens on his way home. 
So they told him where you were. Now, there’s no good 
your being cross with me. What’s done is done, and 
can^t be undone. I acted for the best — my best; and in 
my opinion for your best. Listen! Here’s the message, 
word for word. You’ll see that a few hours’ delay for me to 
think it over could make no difference to any one con- 
cerned. Paul Herter, from somewhere — ^but maybe not 
‘somewhere in France’ — sends you a verbal greeting, be- 
cause it was more sure of reaching you — not coming to 
grief en route. He reminds you that he asked for an address 
in case he had something of interest to communicate. He 
hoped to find the grave of a man you loved. Instead, he 
thinks he has found that there is no grave — that the man 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


307 


is above ground and well. He isn’t sure yet whether he 
may be deceived by a likeness of names. But he’s sure 
enough to say : ‘Hope.’ If he’s right about the man, you 
may get further news almost any minute by way of Switzer- 
land or somewhere neutral. That’s all. Yet it’s enough 
to show you what danger you’re in. If Herter hadn’t 
been practically certain, he wouldn’t have sent any 
message. He’d have waited. Evidently you made 
him believe that you loved Jim Beckett, so he wanted to 
prepare your mind by degrees. I suppose he imagined a 
shock of joy might be dangerous. Well, you ought to 
thank Herter just the same for sparing you a worse 
sort of shock. And I thank him, too, for it gives me 
a great chance — the chance to save you. Mary, the 
time’s come for you and me to fade off the Beckett scene — 
together.” 

I listened without interrupting him once: at first, be- 
cause I was stunned, and a thousand thoughts beat dully 
against my brain without finding their way in, as gulls 
beat their wings against the lamp of a lighthouse; at last, 
because I wished to hear Julian O’Farrell to the very end 
before I answered. I fancied that in answering I could 
better marshal my own thoughts. 

He misunderstood my silence — I expected him to do 
that, but I cared not at all — so, when he had paused and 
still I said nothing, he went on: “Of course I — ^for the 
best of reasons — know you didn’t love Jim Beckett, and 
couldn’t love him.” 

Hearing those words of his, suddenly I knew just what I 
wanted to say. I’d been like an amateur actress wild 
with stage fright, who’d forgotten her part till the right 


;308 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


cue came. “There you’re mistaken,” I contradicted him. 
“I did love Jim Beckett.” 

Julian gave an excited, brutal laugh. “Tell that to 
the Marines, my child, not to yours truly! You never set 
eyes on Jim Beckett. He never went near your hospital. 
You never came near the training-camp. You seem to 
have forgotten that I was on the spot.” 

“ I met him before the war,” I said. 

“What’s that?” Julian didn’t know whether to believe 
me or not, but his forehead flushed to the black line of his 
low-growing hair. 

“I never told you, because there was no need to tell,” 
I went on. “ But it’s true. I fell in love with Jim Beckett 
then, and — he cared for me.” 

For the first time I realized that Julian O’Farrell’s 
“love” wasn’t all pretence. His flush died, and left him 
pale with that sick, greenish-olive pallor which men of 
Latin blood have when they’re near fainting. He opened 
his lips, but did not speak, because, I think, he could not. 
If I’d wanted revenge for what he made me suffer when he 
first thrust himself into my life, I had it then; but to my 
own surprise I felt no pleasure in striking him. Instead 
I f^lt vaguely sorry, though very distant from his plans 
and interests. 

“You — ^you weren’t engaged to Beckett, anyhow. I’m 
sure you weren’t, or you’d have had nothing to worry 
about when Dierdre and I turned up,” he faced me 
down. 

“No, we weren’t engaged,” I admitted. “I — was just 
as much of a fraud as you meant Dierdre to be with Father 
and Mother Beckett. I’ve no excuse — except that it was 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


309 


for Brian’s sake. But that’s no excuse really, and Brian 
would despise fne if he knew.” 

“There you are!” Julian burst out, with a relieved sigh, 
a more natural colour creeping back to his face. “If Jim 
Beckett let you go before the war without asking you to 
marry him, I’m afraid his love couldn’t have been very 
deep — ^not deep enough to make him forgive you after all 
this time for deceiving his old father and mother the way 
you have. My God, no! In spite of your beauty, he’d 
have no mercy on you ! ” 

“That’s what I think,” I said. “My having met him, 
and his loving me a little, makes what I’ve done more 
shameful than if I’d never met him at all.” 

“Then you see why you must get away as quick as you 
can!” urged Julian, his eyes lighting as he drew nearer to 
me on the garden bench. “Oh, wait, don’t speak yet! 
Let me explain my plan. There’s time still. You’re 
thinking of Brian before yourself, maybe. But he’s safe. 
The Becketts adore him. They say he ‘saved their 
reason.’ He makes the mysticism they’re always groping 
for seem real as their daily bread. He puts local colour 
into the fourth dimension for them! They can never do 
without Brian again. All that’s needed is for him to pro- 
pose to Dierdre. I know — ^you think he won’t, no matter 
how he feels. But he’ll have missed her while he’s away. 
She’s a missable little thing to any one who likes her, and 
she can tempt him to speak out in spite of himself when he 
gets back. I’ll see to it that she does. The Becketts 
will be enchanted. The old lady’s a born match-maker. 
We can announce our engagement at the same time. While 
they think Jim’s dead, they won’t grudge your being happy 


r 

SIO EVERYMAN’S LAND 

with another man, especially with me. They’re fond of 
me! And you’re young. Your life’s before you. They’re 
too generous to stand in your way. They look on you as 
a daughter, and Brian as a son. They’ll give each of 
you a handsome wedding present, and I don’t doubt 
they’ll ask Brian to live with them, or near them, if he’s to 
be blind all his life. He’ll have everything you wanted 
to win for him. Even when they get into communi- 
cation with Jim, and find out the truth about you, why I 
bet anything they’ll hide it from Brian to keep him 
happy! Meanwhile you and I will be in Paris, safely 
married. An offer came to me yesterday from Jean De 
Letzski — forwarded on. He’s getting old. He wants 
me to take on some of his pupils, under his direction. 
I telegraphed back my acceptance. That’s the wire 1 was 
sending when Herter’s man turned up last night. There 
was a question last summer of my getting this chance with 
De Letzski, but I hardly dared hope. It’s a great stroke of 
luck ! In the end I shall stand in De Letzski’s shoes, and 
be a rich man — almost as rich as if I’d kept my place as 
star tenor in opera. Even at the beginning you and I 
won’t be poor. I count on a wedding gift from the 
Becketts to you of ten thousand dollars at least. The one 
way to save our reputations is to marry or die brilliantly. 
We choose the former. We can take a fine apartment. 
We’ll entertain the most interesting set in Paris. With 

your looks and charm, and what’s left of my voice, we ” 

‘‘Oh, stop!'' I plunged into the torrent of his talk. 
“You are making me — sick. Do you really believe I’d 
accept money from Jim Beckett’s parents, and — marry 
you?” 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


311 


He stared, round-eyed and hurt, like a misunderstood 
child. “But,” he blundered on, “don’t you see it’s the 
only thing you can do — anyhow, to marry me.^^ If you 
won’t accept money, why it’s a pity and a waste, but I 
want you enough to snap you up without a franc. You 
must marry me, dear. Think what I gave up for you ! ’ ’ 

I burst out laughing. “ What you gave up for me ! ” 
“Yes. Have you forgotten already? If I hadn’t fallen 
in love with you at first sight, and sacrificed myself and 
Dierdre for your good, wouldn’t my sister have been in 
your place now, and you and your brother Lord knows 
where — in prison as impostors, perhaps? ” 

“According to you, my place isn’t a very enviable one at 
present,” I said. “But I’d rather be in prison for life 
than married to you. What a vision — ^what a couple ! ” 
“Oh, I know having you for my wife would be a good 
deal like going to heaven in a strong mustard plaster; but 
I’d stand the smart for the sake of the bliss. If you won’t 
marry me and if you won’t take money from the Becketts, 
what will become of you? That’s what I want to know! 
You can’t stay on with them. You daren’t risk going to 
their Chateau d’Andelle, as things are turning out. Her- 
ter’s certainly in Germany — ideal man for a spy ! If he 
runs across Jim Beckett, as he’s trying to do, he’ll move 
heaven and earth to help him escape. He must have in- 
fluence, and secret ways of working things. He may 
have got at Jim before this for all we can tell. Muller 
let it leak out that he left Herter — somewhere — a week 
ago. A lot «an happen in a week — to a Wandering Jew. 
The ground’s trembling under your feet. You’ll have to 
skip without Brian, without money, without ” 


312 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


“I shall not stir,” I said. “I can’t leave Mrs. Beckett, 
I won’t leave her! The only way I can atone even a 
little bit, is to stop and take care of her while she needs 
me, no matter what happens. When she finds out, she 
won’t want me any longer. Then I’ll go. But not 
before.” 

We glared at each other like two fencers through the 
veil of falling dusk. Suddenly I sprang up from the bench, 
remembering that, at least, I could escape from Julian, if 
not from the sword of Damocles. But he caught my dress, 
and held me fast. 

“ What if I tell the old birds the whole story up to date?” 
he blustered. “ I can, you know.” 

“You can. Please give me fair warning if you’re going 
to — ^that’s all I ask. I’ll try to prepare Mrs. Beckett’s 
mind to bear the shock. She’s not very strong, but ” 

“If I don’t tell, it won’t be because of her. It will be 
for you — always, everything, for you! But I haven’t 
decided yet. I don’t know what I shall do yet. I must 
think. You’ll have to make the best of that compromise 
unless you change your mind.” 

“ I shall not change my mind,” I said. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


I ATER, Padre, when I’d broken away from Julian, 
I wondered if he had made up the whole story. 
The cruel trick would be impishly characteristic! 
But I went straight to the concierge to ask about Muller. 
He said that a man of that name had called the night before, 
inquiring for me, and had talked with “the Monsieur who 
looked like an Italian.” This practically convinced me 
that Julian hadn’t lied. 

If only I could get direct advice from you! Do try to 
I send me an inspiration of what to do for the best, 
i My first impulse was to give Mother Beckett a faint 
hint of hope. But I dared not run the risk. If Paul 
Herter proved to be mistaken, it would be for her like 
losing her son a second time, and the dear one’s strength 
might not be equal to the strain. After thinking and wn- 
thinkimg all night, I decided to keep silent until our two 
men returned from the British front. Then, perhaps, I 
might tell Brian of the message from Doctor Paul, and ask 
his opinion about speaking to Father Beckett. As for 
myself, I resolved not to make any confession, unless it 
were certain that Jim lived. And I’m not sure, Padre, 
whether that decision was based on sheer, selfish coward- 
ice, or whether I founded it partly on the arguments I 
presented to myself. I said in my mind: “If it’s true 
that everything you did in the beginning was for Brian’s 
313 


314 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


good, why undo it all at the most critical hour of his life, 
when perhaps there may never be any reason to speak?’' 
Also I said: “Why make it impossible for yourself to give 
Mother Beckett the care she needs, and can hardly do 
without yet? Every day counts with her now. Why not 
wait unless you hear again more definitely? ” 

The annoying part of a specious argument is that there’s 
always some truth in it, and it seems like kind advice from 
wise friends ! 

Anyhow, I did wait. Julian made no further appeal to 
me, and I felt sure that he said nothing to Dierdre. If he 
had taken her into his confidence, I should have known by 
her manner; because, from the shut-up, night-flower of a 
girl that she was, she has rather pathetically opened out 
for me into a daylight flower. All this since she came of 
her own free will and told me of the scene in the chill 
boarding house salon at Soissons. I used to think her as 
secret as the grave — and deeper. She used to make me 
“creep” as if a mouse ran over mine, by the way her 
eyes watched me: still as a cat’s looking into the fire. If 
we had to shake hands, she used to present me with a 
limp little bunch of cold fingers, which made me long to 
ask what the deuce she wanted me to do with them ? Now, 
because I’m Brian’s sister, and because I’m human enough 
to love her love of him, the flower-part of her nature sheds 
perfume and distils honey for me: the cat-part purrs; the 
girl-part warms. The creature actually deigns to like me! 
It could not now conceal its anxiety for Brian and Brian’s 
Idth and kin, if it knew what Julian knows. 

I waited until our last day at Amiens, and Father Beck- 
ett, Brian, and Sirius are back from the British front. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


315 


Perhaps I forgot to tell you that Sirius went. He wasn’t 
on the programme, but he knew somehow that his master 
was planning a separation, and refused to fall in with the 
scheme. He was discovered in the motor-car when it 
was ready to start, looking his best, his dear face parted 
in the middle with an irresistible, ingratiating smile. 
When Brian tried to put him out he flattened himself, and 
clung like a limpet. By Father Beckett’s intercession, he 
was eventually taken, trusting to luck for toleration by the 
British Army. Of course he continued to smile upon all 
possible arbiters of his fate; and the drama of his history, 
combined with the pathos of his blind master who fought 
on these battlefields of Flanders, which now he cannot see, 
made Brian’s Sirius and Sirius’s Brian personoB gratce every- 
I where. 

“I should have been nobody and nothing without 
them!” modestly insisted the millionaire philanthropist 
for whom all the privileges of the trip had been granted. 

To me, with the one thought, the one word “Jim — Jim— * 
Jim/” repeating in my head it was strange, even irrelevant 
to hear Jim’s unsuspecting father and my blind brother 
discoursing of their adventures. 

We all assembled in Mother Beckett’s sitting room to 
listen to the recital, she on a sofa, a rug over her feet, and 
on her transparent face an utterly absorbed, tense ex- 
pression rather like a French spaniel trying to learn an 
English trick. 

Father Beckett appointed Brian as spokesman, and then 
in his excitement broke in every instant with: “Don’t 
forget this! Be sure to remember that! But so-and-so 
was the best!” Or he jumped up from his chair by the 


316 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


sofa, and dropped his wife’s hand to point out something 
on the map, spread like a cloth over the whole top of a 
bridge-table. 

It was his finger that sketched for our eyes the sharp 
triangle which the road-journey had formed: Amiens to 
Albert: Albert to Peronne: Peronne to Bapaume: Bapaume 
to Arras: Arras to Bethune, and so on to Ypres: his 
finger that reminded Brian of the first forest on the road 
— a forest full of working German prisoners. 

At Pont-Noyelles, between Amiens and Albert, they 
were met by an officer who was to be their guide for that 
part of the British front which they were to visit. He 
was sent from headquarters, but hadn’t been able to afford 
time for Amiens. However, Pont-Noyelles was the most 
interesting place between there and Albert. A tremendous 
battle was fought on that spot in ’70, between the French 
under famous General Faidherbe and the Germans under 
Manteuffel — a 'perfect name for a German general of these 
days, if not of those! There were two monuments to 
commemorate the battle — one high on a hill above the 
village; and the officer guide (with the face of a boy and 
the grim experience of an Old Contemptible) was well up 
in their history. He turned out to be a friend of friends of 
Brian and knew the history of Sirius as well as that of all 
the war-wasted land. He and Brian, though they’d never 
met, had fought near each other it seemed, and he could 
describe for the blind eyes all the changes that had come 
upon the Somme country since Brian’s “day.” The 
roads which had been remade by the British over the shell- 
scarred and honeycombed surface of the land; the aero- 
dromes; the training-camps; the tanks; the wonderful 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 317 

new railways for troops and ammunition: the bands of 
German prisoners docilely at work. 

When the great gray car stopped, throbbing, at special 
view-points here and there, it was Brian who could listen 
for a lark’s message of hope among the billowing downs, or 
diaw in the tea-rose scent of earth from some brown field 
tilled by a woman. It was Father Beckett who saw the 
horrors of desolation — desolation more hideous even than 
on the French front; because, since the beginning, here 
had burned the hottest furnace of war: here had fallen a 
black, never-ceasing rain of bombardment, night and day, 
day and night, year after year. 

It was the cherubic Old Contemptible who could tell 
each detail of war-history, when the car reached Albert. 
It was Brian who knew the ancient legend of the place, and 
the modern story of the spy, which, together, double the 
dramatic interest of the Bending Virgin. In the eleventh 
century a shepherd boy discovered, in a miraculous way, 
a statue of the Virgin. There was a far-off sound of music 
at night, when he was out in search of strayed sheep, and 
being young he forgot his errand in curiosity to learn 
whence came the mysterious chanting, accompanied by 
the silver notes of a flute. The boy wandered in the direc- 
t lon of the delicate sounds, and to his amazement found 
all the lost flock grazing round a statue which appeared to 
have risen from the earth. On that spot was built the 
basilica of Notre-Dame de Brebieres, which became a 
place of pilgrimage. The Virgin of the Shepherds was 
supposed to send her blessings far, far over the country- 
side, and her gilded image, with the baby Christ in her 
arms, was a flaming beacon at sunrise and sunset. Thus 


S18 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


on her high tower the golden Lady stood when the war 
began. Albert was pitilessly bombarded, and with a 
startling accuracy which none could understand: yet the 
church itself, with its temptingly high tower, remained 
intact. Through October, 1914, the shining figure blazed 
against the sky, while houses fell in all quarters of the town: 
but on November 1st, three bombs struck the church. 
They were the first heavy drops of rain in a thunderstorm. 
The roof crashed in: and presently the pedestal of the 
Virgin received a shattering blow. This was on the very 
day when Albert discovered why for so long the church 
had been immune. A spy had been safely signalling from 
the tower, telling German gunners how and where to strike 
with the most damage to the town. When all the fac- 
tories which gave wealth to Albert, and the best houses, 
had been methodically destroyed, the spy silently stole 
away: and the Virgin of the Shepherds then bent over, 
face down, to search for this black sheep of the fold. Ever 
since she with the sacred Child in her arms has hung thus 
suspended in pity and blessing over mountainous piles of 
wreckage which once composed the market-place. She 
will not crash to earth, Albert believes, till the war is over. 
But so loved is she in her posture of protection that the 
citizens propose to keep her in it for ever to commemorate 
the war-history of Albert, when Albert is rebuilt for future 
generations. 

From there the gray car ran on almost due east to 
Peronne, out of the country of Surrey-like, Chiltern-like 
downs, into a strange marshy waste, where the river 
Somme expands into vast meres, swarming with many 
fish. It looked, Father Beckett said, ‘‘Like a bit of 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 319 

the world when God had just begun to create life out of 
chaos.” 

Poor Peronne ! In its glorious days of feudal youth its 
fortress-castle was invincible. The walls were so thick 
that in days before gunpowder no assaults could hope to 
break through them. Down in its underground depths 
was a dungeon, where trapped enemy princes lay rotting 
and starving through weary years, never released save by 
death, unless tortured into signing shameful treaties. 
The very sound of the name, “Peronne,” is an echo of 
history, as Brian says. Hardly a year-date in the Middle 
Ages could be pricked by a pin without touching some 
sensational event going on at that time at Peronne. 
I remember this from my schooldays; and more clearly still 
from “Quentin Durward,” which I have promised to 
read aloud to Mother Beckett. I remember the Scottish 
monks who were established at Peronne in the reign of 
Clovis. I remember how Charles the Bold of Burgundy 
(who died outside Nancy’s gates) imprisoned wicked 
Louis XI in a strong tower of the chateau, one of the four 
towers with conical roofs, like extinguishers of giant 
candles and kingly reputations! I remember best of all 
the heroine of Peronne, Catherine de Poix, “la belle 
Peronnaise,” who broke with her own hand the standard 
of Charles’s royal flag, in the siege of 1536, threw the bearer 
into the fosse, and saved the city. 

When Wellington took the fortress in 1814, he did not 
desecrate or despoil the place: it was left for the Ger- 
mans to do that, just a century later in the progress of 
civilization! My blood grew hot as I heard from our two 
men the story of what the new Vandals had done. Just 


320 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


for a moment I almost forgot the secret burning in my 
heart. The proud pile of historic stone brought to earth 
at last, like a soldier-king, felled by an axe in his old age: 
the statue of Catherine thrown from its pedestal, and re- 
placed in mockery by a foolish manikin — this as a mean 
revenge for what she did to the standard-bearer, most of 
Charles’s men in the siege being Germans, under Henry of 
Nassau. 


“Tou jours Francs-P^ronnais 
Auront bon jour, 

Toujours et en tout temps 
Francs-P^ronnais auront bon temps,” 

the girls used to sing in old days as they wove the wonderful 
linens and tissues of Peronne, or embroidered banners of 
gorgeous colours to commemorate the saving of the Picard 
city by Catherine: as Brian repeated to Father Beckett 
wandering through the ruins redeemed last spring for 
France by the British. And though Brian’s eyes could not 
see the rubbish-heap where once had soared the citadel he 
saw through the mystic veil of his blindness many things 
which others did not see. 

It seems that above these marshy flats of the Somme, 
where the river has wandered away from the hills and dis- 
guised itself in shining lakes, gauzy mists always hover. 
Brian had seen them with bodily eyes, while he was a 
soldier. Now, with the eyes of his spirit he saw them 
again, gleaming with the delicate, indescribable colours 
which only blind eyes can call up to lighten darkness. He 
saw the fleecy clouds streaming over Peronne like a 
vast, transparent ghost-banner. He saw on their filmy 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


321 


folds, as if traced in blue and gold and royal purple, the 
ever famous scene on the walls when Catherine and her 
following beat back Nassau’s men from the one breach 
where they might have captured the town. And this 
mystic banner of the spirit Germans can never capture 
or desecrate. It will wave over Peronne — what was 
Peronne, and what will again be Peronne — while the world 
goes on making history for free men. 

After Peronne, Bapaume: the battered corpse of 
Bapaume, murdered in flame that reddened all the skies of 
Picardy before the British came to chase the Germans out ! 

In old times, when a place was destroyed the saying was, 
“Not one stone is left upon another.” But in this war, 
destruction means an avalanche of stones upon each other. 
Bapaume as Father Beckett saw it, is a Herculaneum 
unexcavated. Beneath lie buried countless precious 
things, and still more precious memories; the feudal 
grandeur of the old chateau where Philippe-Auguste 
married proud Isabelle de Hainaut, with splendid cere- 
mony as long ago as 1180: the broken glory of ancient 
ramparts, where modern lovers walked till the bugles of 
August 2, 1914, parted them for ever; the arcaded 
Town Hall, old as the domination of the Spaniards in 
Picardy; the sixteenth-century church of St. Nicolas with 
its quaint Byzantine Virgin of miracles: the statue of 
Faidherbe who beat back the German wave from Bapaume 
in 1871: all, all burned and battered, and mingled in- 
extricably with debris of pitiful little homes, nobles’ 
houses, rich shops and tiny boutiques, so that, when 
Bapaume rises from the dead, she will rise as one — even 
as France has risen. 


322 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Of the halting places on this pilgrimage along the British 
front, I should best have liked to be with Brian and 
Father Beckett at Arras. Brian and I were there together 
you know. Padre, on that happy-go-lucky tramping tour of 
ours — not long before I met Jim. We both loved Arras, 
Brian and I, and spent a week there in the most fascinating 
of ancient hotels. It had been a palace; and I had a huge 
room, big enough for the bedchamber of a princess (prin- 
cesses should always have bedchambers, never mere bed- 
rooms !) with long windows draped like the walls and stiff 
old furniture, in yellow satin. I was frightened when an 
aged servant with the air of a pontiff ushered me in; 
for Brian and I were travelling “on the cheap.” But 
Arras, though delicious in its quaint charm, never attrac- 
ted hordes of ordinary tourists. Consequently one could 
have yellow satin hangings without being beggared. 

Oh, how happy we were in that hotel, and in the adorable 
old town! While Brian painted in the Grande Place and 
the Petite Place, and sketched the Abbey of St.Waast (who 
brought Christianity to that part of the world) I wandered 
alone. I used to stand every evening till my neck ached, 
staring up at the beautiful belfry, to watch the swallows 
chase each other back and forth among the bells, whose 
peal was music of fairyland. And I never tired of wander- 
ing through the arcades under the tall eld Flemish houses 
with their overhanging upper storeys, or peeping into the 
arcades’ cool shadows, from the middle of the sunht 
squares. 

There were some delightful shops in those arcades, where 
they sold antique Flemish furniture, queer old pictures 
showing Arras in her proud, treaty-making days (you know 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


323 


i Vv’liat a great place she was for treaty-making!) and lovely 
faded tapestries said to be “genuinely” of the time when 
no one mentioned a piece of tapestry save as an “arras.” 
But the shop I haunted was a cake-shop. It was called 
Cceur Arras” because the famous speciahty of Arras 
was a heart-shaped cake; but I wasn’t lured there so much 
by the charm of les coeurs as by that of the person who 
sold them. 

I dare say I described her to you in letters, or when I got 
back to England after that trip. The most wonderful old 
lady who ever lived! She didn’t welcome her customers 
at all. She just sat and knitted. She had an architectural 
sort of face, framed with a crust of snow — I mean, a 
frilled cap! And if one furtively stared, she looked at 
one down her nose, and made one feel cheap and small 
as if one had snored, or hiccupped out aloud in a cathedral! 
But it seems I won her esteem by enquiring if ^^les coeurs 

Arras” had a history. Nobody else had ever shown 
enough intelligence to care! So she gave me the history 
of the cakes, and of everything else in Arras; also, before 
we went away, she escorted Brian and me into a marvellous 
cellar beneath her shop. It went down three storeys and 
had fireplaces and a well! The earth under La Grande 
Place was honeycombed with such souterrains, she said. 
They’d once been quarries, in days so old as to be for- 
gotten — quarries of “tender stone” (what a nice ex- 
pression!), and the people of Arras had cemented and 
made them habitable in case of bombardment. They 
must have been useful in 1914 ! 

As for the cakes, they were invented by an abbess who 
was sent to Spain. Before reluctantly departing, she 


324 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


gave the recipe to her successor, saying she “left her heart 
in Arras.” According to the legend (the old shop-lady 
assured me) a girl who had never loved was certain to fall 
in love within a month after first eating a Heart of Arras. 
Well, Padre, I ate almost a hundred hearts, and less than 
a month after I met Jim ! 

You may believe that I asked Brian and Father Beckett 
a dozen questions at once about dear Arras. But alac, 
alas! all the answers were sad. 

The beautiful belfry? Only a phantom remaining. 
The Hotel de Ville? Smashed. La Grande Place — 
La Petite Place? Stone quarries above ground as well 
as below, the old Flemish fagades crumbled like sheets of 
barley sugar. The arcades? Ruined. The charming 
old shops? Vanished. The seller of Hearts? Dead. 
But the Hearts — they still existed ! The children of Arras 
who have come back “since the worst was over” (that 
is their way of putting it!) would not feel that life was 
life without the Arras Hearts. Besides, Arras without the 
Hearts would be like the Altar of the Vestal Virgins with- 
out the ever-burning lamp. So they are still baked, and 
still eaten, those brave little Hearts of Arras — and Brian 
asked Father Beckett to bring me a box. 

They bought it of a cousin of my old woman, an ancient 
man who had lurked in a cellar during the whole of the 
bombardment. He said that all Arras knew, in Septem- 
ber, 1914, how the Kaiser had vowed to march into the 
town in triumph, and how, when he found the place as hard 
to take “as quicksilver is to grasp,” he revenged himself 
by destroying its best-beloved treasimes. He must have 
rejoiced that July day of 1915, when Wolff’s Agency was 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 325 

able to announce at last, that the Abbey of St. Waast 
and its museum were in flames ! 

As the gray car bumped on to Bethune, Vimy Ridge 
floated blue in the far distance, to the right of the road, 
and Father Beckett and Brian took off their hats to it. 
Still farther away, and out of sight lay Lens, in German 
possession, but practically encircled by the British. The 
Old Contemptible had been there, and described the 
town as having scarcely a roof left, but being an “ant 
heap” of Boches, who swarm in underground shelters 
bristling with machine guns. Between Lens and the road 
stood the celebrated Colonne de Conde, showing where the 
prince won his great victory over Spain; and farther on, 
within gun-sound distance though out of sight, lay Loos, 
on the Canal de I’Haute Deule. Who thinks nowadays 
of its powerful Cistercian Abbey, that dominated the 
country round? Who thinks twice, when travelling this 
Appian Way which Germany has given France, of any 
history which began or ended before the year 1914? 

Bethune they found still existing as a town. It has 
been bombarded often but not utterly destroyed, and from 
there they ran out four miles to Festubert, because the 
little that the Germans have left of the thirteenth-century 
church and village, burns with an eternal flame of interest. 

Bethune itself was a famous fortress once, full of history 
and legend: but isn’t the whole country in its waste and 
ruin, like a torn historic banner, crusted with jewels — 
magic jewels, which cannot be stolen by enemy hands? 

On the way to Ypres — crown and climax of the tour — the 
car passed Fillers and Hazebrouck, places never to be 
forgotten by hearts that beat in the battles of Flanders. 


S26 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


Then came the frontier at Steenwoorde; and they were 
actually in Belgium, passing Poperinghe to Ypres, the 
most famous British battleground of the war. 

When Brian was fighting, and when you were on earth. 
Padre, everyone talked about the “Ypres Salient.” Now, 
though for soldiers Ypres will always be the “salient” 
since the battle of Wytschaete Ridge, the material salient 
has vanished. Yet the same trenches exist, in the same 
gray waste which Brian used to paint in those haunting, 
impressionist war sketches of his that all London talked 
about, after the Regent Street exhibition that he didn’t 
even try for leave to see! The critics spoke of the mys- 
terious, spiritual quality of his work, which gave “without 
sentimentality” picturesqueness to the shell-holes and 
mud, the shattered trees and wooden crosses, under eter- 
nally dreaming skies. 

Well, Brian tells me that going back as a blind man to 
the old scenes, he had a strange, thrilling sense of seeing 
them — seeing more clearly than before those effects of 
mysterious beauty, hovering with prophecy above the 
squalor of mud and blood, hovering and mingling as the 
faint light of dawn mingles, at a certain hour, with the 
shadows of night. People used to call his talent a “blend 
of vision with reality.” Now, all that is left him is 
“vision” — vision of the spirit. But with help — I used to 
think it would be my help : now I realize it will be Dierdre’s 
— who knows what extraordinary things my blind Brian 
may accomplish? His hope is so beautiful, and so strong, 
that it has lit an answering flame of hope in me. 

He and I were in Ypres for a few days, just about the 
time I was wondering why “Jim Wyndham” didn’t keep 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


327 


his promise to find me again. It was in Ypres, I remem- 
ber, that I came across the box of '*Coeurs d' Arras'' I’d 
brought with me. Opening it, I recalled the legend about 
a girl who has never loved, falling in love within a month 
after first eating an Arras Heart. It was then I said to 
myself, “ Why, it has come true ! I have fallen in love with 
Jim Wyndham — and he has forgotten me I" 

Oh, Padre, how that pain comes back to me now, in the 
midst of the new pain, like the “core of the brilliance 
within the brilliance!” Which hurt is worse, to love a 
man, and believe oneself forgotten, or to love and know 
one has been loved, and then become unworthy? I can’t 
be sure. I can’t even be sure that, if I could, I would go 
back to being the old self before I committed the one big 
sin of my life, which gave me Jim’s father and mother, and 
the assurance that he had cared. For a while, after Mother 
Beckett told me about Jim’s love for “The Girl,” in spite 
of my wickedness I glowed with a kind of happiness. I 
felt that, through all the years of my life — even when I 
grew old — ^Jim would be mine, young, handsome, gay, 
just as I had seen him on the Wonderful Day: that 
I could always run away from outside things and shut 
the gate of the garden on myself and Jim — ^that rose- 
garden on the border of Belgium. Now, when I know — ■ 
or almost know — that he will come back in the flesh 
to despise me, and that the gate of the garden will be 
forever shut — ^why, I shall be punished as perhaps no 
woman has ever been punished before. Still — still I 
can’ t be sure that I would escape, if I could, by going 
back to my old self! 

It is writing of Belgium, and my days there with Brian 


328 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


while I still hoped to see Jim, that brings all these thoughts 
crowding so thickly to my mind, they seem to drip off my 
pen! 

But what a different Ypres Father Beckett has now 
seen, and Brian felU from that dear, pleasant Ypres into 
which we two drove in a cart, along a cobbled causeway as 
straight as a tight-drawn string! Tourists who loved the 
blue, and yellow, and red bath-houses on the golden beach 
of Ostend, didn’t worry to motor over the bumpy road, 
through the Flemish plain to Ypres. The war was needed 
to bring its sad fame to “Wipers!” But Brian and I in- 
terrupted our walking tour with that cart, because we 
knew that the interminable causeway would take us deep 
into the inner quaintness of Flanders. We adored it all: 
and at every stopping-place on the twenty-mile road, I 
had the secret joy of whispering; “Perhaps it is here that 
He will suddenly appear, and meet us ! ” 

There was one farmhouse on the way, where I longed to 
have him come. I wanted him so much that I almost 
created him! I was listening every moment, and through 
every sound, for his car. It never came. But because I 
so wished the place to be a background for our meeting I 
can see the two large living-rooms of the old house, with 
the black-beamed ceilings, the Flemish stoves, the tall, 
carved sideboards and chests with armorial bearings, the 
deep window-seats that were flower-stands and work- 
tables combined, and the shelves of ancient pottery and 
gleaming, antique brass. There was a comfortable frag- 
rance of new-baked bread, mingling with the spicy scent 
of grass-pinks, in that house: and the hostess who 
gave us luncheon — a young married woman — ^had a mild, 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


329 


sweet face, strongly resembling that of St. Genevieve 
of Brabant, as pictured in a coloured lithograph on the 
wall. 

St. Genevieve’s story is surely the most romantic, the 
most pathetic of any saint who ever deigned to tread on 
earth ! — and her life and death might serve as an allegory 
of Belgium’s martyrdom, poor Belgium, the little country 
whose patron she is. Since that day at the farmhouse on 
the road to Ypres, I’ve thought often of the gentle face 
with its forget-me-not eyes and golden hair; and of Golo 
the dark persecutor who — they say now — ^was a real person 
and an ancestor of the Hohenzollerns through the first 
Due de Baviere. 

At Ypres, Brian painted for me a funny “imagination 
picture” imitating earliest Flemish work. It showed 
Ypres when there was no town save a few tiny houses and 
a triangular stronghold, with a turret at each corner, built 
on a little island in the river Yperlee. He named the 
picture “The Castle of the Three Strong Towers,” and 
dated it in the year 900. A thousand years have passed since 
then. Slowly, after much fighting (the British fought 
as hard to take Ypres once, as they fight to save it now), 
the town grew great and powerful, and became the capital 
of Flanders. The days of the rough earthen stockades and 
sharp thorn-bush defences of “Our Lady of the En- 
closures” passed on to the days of casemates and moats; 
and still on, to the days when the old fortifications could be 
turned into ornamental walks — days of quaintly beauti- 
ful architecture, such as Brian and I saw before the war, 
when we spent hours in the Grand’ Place, admiring the 
wonderful Cloth Hall and the Spanish-looking Nieuwerck. 


830 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


The people of Ypres told us proudly that nothing in Bruges 
itself, or anywhere in Flanders, could compare with those 
noble buildings massed together at the west end of the 
Grand’ Place, each stone of which represented so much 
wealth of the richest merchant kings of Europe. 

And now, the work of those thousand busy years has 
crumbled in a few monstrous months, like the sand-houses 
of children when the tide comes in! What Father Beckett 
saw of Ypres after three years’ bombardment, was not 
much more than that shown in Brian’s picture, dated 900! 
A blackened wall or two and a heap of rubble where stood 
the Halle des Drapiers — ^pride of Ypres since the thirteenth 
century — its beKry, its statues, its carvings, its paintings, 
all vanished like the contours and colours of a sunset cloud. 
The cathedral is a skeleton. Hardly a pointed gable is 
left to tell where the quaint and prosperous houses once 
grouped cosily together. Ypres the town is a mourner 
draped in black with the stains of fire which killed its 
beauty and joy. But there is a glory that can never be 
killed, a glory above mere beauty, as a living soul is 
above the dead body whence it has risen. That glory is 
Ypres. She is a ghost, but she is an inspiration, a name 
of names, a jewel worth dying for — “worth giving a man’s 
eyes for,” Brian says ! 

“Has your brother told you about the man we met at 
the Visitors’ Chateau?” asked Father Beckett, when 
between the two men — and my reminiscences — the 
story of the tour was finished with those last words of 
Brian’s. 

“No, I haven’t told her yet,” Brian answered for me. 

My nerves jumped. I scarcely knew what I expected tQ 


EVERYIVIAN’S LAND 


331 


hear. “Not Doctor Paul Herter?” I exclaimed — and 
was surprised to hear on my own lips the name so con- 
stantly in my mind. 

“Well, that’s queer she should speak of him, isn’t it, 
Brian? How did you come to think of Herter? ” Father 
Beckett wanted to know. 

“ Was it he? ” I insisted. 

“No. But — ^you’d better tell her, Brian. I guess you’ll 
have to.” 

“There isn’t much to tell, really,” Brian said. “It was 
only that oculist chap Herter told you about — ^Dr. Henri 
Chrevreuil. He’s been working at the front, as you know: 
lately it’s been the British front; and they’d taken him in 
at the chateau for a few days’ rest. We met him there 
and talked of his friend — ^your friend, Molly — ^Doctor 
Pa^iil.” 

“What did he say about your eyes?” Dierdre almost 
gasped. (I should not have ventured to put the ques- 
tion suddenly, and before people. I should have been too 
afraid of the answer. But her nickname is “Dare.'”) 
“He must have said something, or Mr. Beckett wouldn’t 
have spoken so. He did look at your eyes — didn’t he? 
He would, for Herter’s sake.” 

“Yes, he did look at them,” Brian admitted. “He 
didn’t say much.” 

“ But what — what ? ” 

“He said: ‘Wait, and — see.” 

“And see I ” Dierdre echoed. 

The same thought was in all our minds. As I gazed 
mutely at Brian, he gave me the most beautiful smile of his 
life. He must have felt that I was looking ^t him, or he 


332 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


would not so have smiled. Let Jim hate and — punish me 
when he comes back, and drive me out of Paradise ! Wher- 
ever I may go, there will be the reflection of that smile and 
the thought behind it. How can I be unhappy, if Brian 
need only wait, to see? 


CHAPTER XXX 


P ADRE, my mind is like a thermometer exposed 
every minute to a different temperature, but al- 
ways high or low — never normal. 

To tell, or not to tell. Father Beckett what the man I 
didn’t see said about Jim — or rather, what Julian O’Far- 
rell said that he said! This has been the constant ques- 
tion; but the thermometer invariably flies up or down, 
far from the answer-point. 

When our men came back to Amiens, I almost hoped 
that Puck would do his worst — carry out his threat and 
“give me away” to Father Beckett. In that case I should 
at least have been relieved from responsibility. But 
Puck didn’t. In my heart I had known all along that he 
would not. 

If I could have felt for a whole minute at a time that it 
would be fair to wake hopes which mightn’t be fulfilled, 
out would have burst the secret. But whenever I’d 
screwed up my courage to speak. Something would re- 
mind me: “Herter sent word that there might be a mes- 
sage from Switzerland. Better wait till it comes, for he 
wasn’t sure of his facts. He may have been misled.” 
Or, when I’d decided not to speak, another Something 
would say: “Jim is alive. You know hQ is alive! Her- 
ter is helping him to escape. Don’t let these dear old 
people suffer a minute longer than they need.” 

333 


384 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


But — well — so far I have waited. A week has passed 
since I wrote at Amiens. We have arrived at Jim’s 
chateau — the little, quaint, old Chateau d’Andelle, with 
thick stone walls, black-beamed ceilings, and amusing 
towers, set in the midst of an enchanted forest of Nor- 
mandy. No wonder he fell in love with the place before 
the war, and wanted to live there! It must have seemed 
an impossible dream at the time, for the owners (the 
chateau has been in the same family for generations) had 
money in those days, and wouldn’t have let their home to 
strangers. The war has made all the difference. They 
couldn’t afford to keep up the place, and were eager to let. 
Beckett money is a boon to them, so everyone is satisfied. 
The agents in Paris secured two or three extra servants 
to help the old pair left in the house as caretakers; and 
there is a jewel of a maid for Mother Beckett — a Belgian 
refugette. I shall give her some training as a nurse, and 
by and by I shall be able to fade away in peace. Already 
I’m beginning to prepare my dear lady’s mind for a part- 
ing. I talk of my hospital work, and drop hints that 
I’m only on leave — that Brian’s hopes and Father Beck- 
ett’s splendid new-born plan for him, will permit me to 
take up duty again soon. 

The plan developed on the trip: but I’m sure the first 
inspiration came from Mother Beckett. While she was 
ill, she did nothing but lie and think of things to do for 
other people. And she was determined to make it possible 
for Brian to have a love story of his own, provided he 
wanted one. It only needed Father Beckett’s practical 
brain and unlimited purse to turn her vague suggestion 
into a full-grown plan. A whole block of buildings on 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


335 


the outskirts of Paris, let as apartment houses, is to be 
bought by Mr. Beckett, for the use of blinded soldiers. 
Already his agents have got the refusal of the property 
for him; and with a few changes such as knocking down 
inner walls and putting in doors where doors don’t exist, 
the houses will become one big mansion, to accommodate 
five or six hundred men. Each will have his own bedroom 
or cubicle. There’ll be a gymnasium, with a Swedish in- 
structor, and every trade or profession in which a blind 
man could possibly engage will be taught by experts. 
There will be a big dining hall with a musicians’ gallery, 
and a theatre. The library will be supplied with quanti- 
ties of books for the blind. There’ll be a garden where the 
men will be taught to grow flowers and vegetables. They 
will have a resident doctor, and two superintendents. One 
of these two will himself be a blind man taught by his 
own experience how to teach others. Of course. Padre, 
you know that this blind teacher is already chosen, and 
that the whole scheme centres round him ! 

In a way Brian realizes that, if it were not for him, it 
would never have been thought of. In a way. But — • 
it is his way. He doesn’t torture himself, as I probably 
should in his place, by thinking: “All these immense sums 
of money being spent as an excuse to provide for me in 
life ! Ought I to let it be done.^ Ought I to accept? ” 

Brian’s way is not that. He says: “Now I understand 
why I lost my eyesight, and it’s worth it a thousand times. 
This wonderful chance is to be given me to help others, as 
I never could have helped if I hadn’t been blind. If sight 
comes back, I shall know what it is to be blind, and I can 
give counsel and courage to others. I am glad, glad to 


336 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


be blind. It’s a privilege and a mission. Even if I never 
see again, except with my spirit’s eyes, I shall still be glad ! ” 

He doesn’t worry at all because carrying out the plan 
will cost Father Beckett one or more of his millions. What 
is money for, except to be spent? What pleasure is like 
spending to do good? He finds it quite natural that 
Father Beckett wants to do this thing; and though he’s 
immensely grateful, he takes it blithely for granted that 
the benefactor should be happy and proud. 

Travelling back from Ypres to Amiens they seem to 
have settled all the details between them, though they 
told us their adventures before even mentioning the Plan. 
Brian is to be guide, philosopher, and friend to the 
inmates and students of the James Wyndham Beckett 
College for the Blind. Also he is to give lectures on 
art and various other subjects. If he can learn to 
paint his blind impressions (as he believes he can, with 
Dierdre’s promised help) he will be able to teach 
other blind artists to follow his example. And he 
is to have a salary for his services — not the big one Father 
Beckett wished : Brian wouldn’t hear of that — ^but enough 
to live on. And Dierdre and Julian are offered oflScial 
positions and salaries too. It’s suggested that they 
should take a flat near by the College, within easy walk- 
ing distance. Dierdre is to entertain the blind men with 
recitations, and teach the art of reciting to those who wish 
to learn. Julian is to sing and play for the men in the 
house-theatre, once or twice a week, as he can spare time 
from his work with De Letzski. Also he will give one 
lesson a week in singing and voice production. 

Both the O’Farrells are to be well paid (no trouble in 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


337 


persuading Julian to accept generous proposals for him- 
self and his sister; for him the labourer is indeed 
worthy of his hire) : and with American dash and money the 
scheme is expected to be in working order by next June. 
It’s now well into November. But after seeing how other 
schemes have worked, and how this Chdteau d’Andelle 
business has been rushed through, I have the most sub- 
lime faith in Beckett miracles. 

They are astonishing, these Becketts ! Father, the sim- 
plest, kindest man, with the air of liking his fireside 
better than any adventure : Mother, a slip of a creature — 
“a flower in a vase to be kept by her menfolk on a high 
shelf,” as I told myself when I first saw her. Yet what 
adventures they have had, and what they have accom- 
plished since the day Brian proposed this pilgrimage, two 
months ago! Not a town on our route that, after the war 
won’t have cause to bless them and the son in whose name 
their good works have been done — cause to bless Beckett 
kindness, Beckett money for generations in the future! 
Yet now they have added this most ambitious plan of all 
to the list, and I know it will be carried out to perfection. 

You see now. Padre, from what I’ve told you, how easy 
it is being made for me to slip out of this circle. Brian, 
beaming with happiness, and on the point of opening his 
heart to Dierdre’s almost worshipping love: Mother 
Beckett slowly getting back a measure of frail, flower-like 
health, in this lovely place which she calls Jim’s: Father 
Beckett more at ease about her, and intensely interested 
in his scheme: the small, neat Belgian refugette likely to 
prove at least a ministering mouse if not a ministering 
angel: above all, hope if not certainty that Jim will one 


338 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


day return — not only in spirit but in body — to his chdteau 
and his family. If I am needed anywhere on earth, it 
isn’t here, but down in the south at my poor Hopital des 
Epidemies. Would it be cowardly in me to fly, as soon 
as I’ve persuaded the Becketts to spare me, and throw the 
responsibility I haven’t dared decide to take, upon my 
brave, blind Brian? 

Ah, I don’t mean telling him about myself and my sins. 
I shouldn’t have the courage for that, I fear! I mean, 
shall I tell him about Doctor Paul’s message — or supposed 
message? It has just occurred to me that I might do 
this, and let Brian decide whether Father Beckett ought to 
know, even if no further news comes through Switzerland. 
You see, if I were gone, and Jim came, I could trust the 
new Dierdre to do her best for me with Brian. He 
could never respect me, never love me in the old way — ^but 
he might forgive, because of Dierdre herself — and because 
of the great Plan. Hasn’t my wickedness given them both 
to him? 

Writing all this to you has done me good. Padre. I see 
more clearly ahead. I shall decide before morning what 
to do. I feel I shall this time ! And I think it a good idea 
to speak to Brian. He will agree, though he doesn’t know 
my secret need to escape, that it’s right for me to take up 
hospital work again. But, Padre, I can’t go — I wonH 
go — until I’ve helped Mother Beckett arrange Jim’s treas- 
ures in the room to be called his “den.” She has been 
living for that, striving to grow strong enough for that. 
And I — oh. Padre! — I want to be the one to unpack his 
things and to touch each one with my hands. I want to 
leave something of myself in that room where, if he’s dead. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


339 


his spirit will surely come: where, if he lives, his body 
will come. If I leave behind me thoughts of love, won’t 
I they linger between those walls like the scent of roses 
in a vase? Mayn’t those thoughts influence Jim Beckett 
not to detest me as I deserve? 


CHAPTER XXXI 


F ive days later. 

I did talk to Brian, Padre, and he said, better 
wait and give the letter from Switzerland a fair 
chance to arrive, before telling Father Beckett about Doc- 
tor Paul’s messenger at Amiens. 

Now I have had a letter, but not from Switzerland. I 
shall fold it up between the pages of this book of my con- 
fessions. I believe you will read it. Padre. 

It came to-day. It explains itself. The envelope, 
postmarked Paris, was addressed to me in typewriting. 
If Mother Beckett had not had a slight relapse from work- 
ing too hard in the den, I might perhaps have been gone 
before the letter came. Then it would have had to be 
forwarded. It’s better that I stayed. You will see why. 
But — oh. Padre, Padre ! 

THE LETTER 

“Miss O’Malley, 

“Once I met a lady whose name, as I understood it, was not 
unlike yours now, given me by Doctor Paul Herter. I cannot 
think that you and she are one. That lady, I’d swear, would be 
incapable of — let me say, placing herself in a false position. 

“Though you will not recognize my handwriting, I’ve said 
enough for you to guess that James Wyndham Beckett is your 
correspondent. I have had the address typed because, for my 
parents’ sake and to spare them distress, it seems that you and I 
340 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


341 

must reach some understanding before I venture to let them 
know that I’m alive. 

“If you are worthy to be called ‘friend’ by such a man as Paul 
Herter, you will wish to atone for certain conduct, by carrying 
out the request I make now. I must trust you to do so. But 
first let me relieve my mind of any fear for yourself. I have not 
contradicted the story you told Herter about our engagement. 
What I shall say to my parents when I meet them, as I hope soon 
to do, depends upon circumstances. Till you and I have had a 
private conversation, you will oblige me by letting things re- 
main as they are. I have strong reasons for this wish. One of 
them — ^the only one I need explain now, is that it will seem 
natural to them I should write to my fiancee — a young, strong 
girl able to bear the shock of a great surprise — asking her to break 
the news gently and tactfully to my father and mother. I do 
ask you to do this. How to do it I must leave to you. But 
when you’ve told my parents that I’m alive, that I’ve escaped, 
that I’m in Paris with Herter, that as soon as my official business 
of reporting myself is finished. I’ll get leave, you may put into 
their hands the following pages of this letter. They will not 
think it strange that the girl I am engaged to should keep the 
first part for her own eyes. Thus, without your being com- 
promised, they will learn my adventures without having to 
wait until I come. But there’s just room enough left on this 
first sheet to reiterate that, when Herter found me, and gave 
me the somewhat disconcerting news of my engagement to 
his friend, a Miss O’Malley travelling with my parents, I — simply 
listened. Rather than excite his suspicions I did not even 
yield to curiosity, and try to draw out a description. I could 
not be sure then that I should ever see you, or my people, for 
escape was difficult and there were more chances against than 
for my getting out of Germany alive. Now, in all human cer- 
tainty I shall arrive at the Chateau d’Andelle (I got the address 


S42 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


at the bank), and you owe it to me to remain on the spot till we 
can thrash out our affair together. I will begin on a new sheet 
the story of the last few months since my capture. You must 
forgive me if it bores you. In reality it is for my parents, when 
you have prepared their minds, and I don’t think it will bore 
them. . . . 

“We came a bad cropper. I was thrown clear of the machine, 
but knew nothing until I waked up, feeling like a bag of broken 
bones. It was night, and I saw a huge fountain of red flame and 
a lot of dark figures like silhouettes moving between it and me. 
That brought me out of my stupor. I knew my plane must have 
taken fire as it crashed down, and I was pretty sure the silhou- 
ettes were Germans. I looked around for my observer, and 
called to him in a low voice, hoping the Bosch wouldn’t hear, 
over the noise of the fire. Nobody answered. Later I found out 
that the poor chap had been caught under the car. I pray he 
died before the flames reached him ! 

“As I got my wits back, I planned to try and hide myself under 
some bushes I could see not far off, till the coast was clear; but I 
couldn’t move. I seemed to be thoroughly smashed up, and 
began to think it was the end of things id-bas for me. After 
a while I must have fainted. By and by I had a dream of jolting 
along through a blazing desert, on the back of a lame camel. It 
was rather fierce, that jolting ! It shook me out of my faint, and 
when I opened my eyes it was to find myself on a stretcher 
carried by fellows in German gray. They took me to a field 
hospital, and I guessed by the look of things that it was close to 
the first lines. It made me sick to think how near I must be to 
our own front — yet so far ! 

“Well, I won’t be long-winded about what happened next. 
I can go into details when we meet. It turned out that I had 
a leg, an arm, and some ribs smashed. The Bosch surgeon 
wasn’t half bad, as Bosches go, but he was a bit brusque. I 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


343 


heard him say right out to the anaesthetist, it seemed a pity 
to waste good ether on me, as there wasn’t one chance in five 
to save my life. Still, I’d be an experiment! Before I went 
oflf under the stuff I told them who I was, for I’d heard they were 
sometimes fairly decent to enemy aviators, and I hoped to get a 
message through to my people. I was feeling as stupid as an 
owl, but I did think I saw a change come over the men’s faces 
when they heard my name. Later, putting two and two to- 
gether, I concluded that Germany was just the kind of business 
nation to know all about the dear old Governor. I might have 
realized that, out of sheer spite against the United States for 
bursting into the war, they’d enjoy letting a man of James Beckett 
Senior’s importance go on believing his son was dead. I bet 
they put my name over the grave of my poor, burned pal. Hank 
Lee 1 It would be the thoroughgoing sort of thing they do, when 
they make up their minds to create an impression. 

“I didn’t die, though! Spite for spite, I got well. But it 
took some time. One of my lungs had been damaged a bit 
by a broken rib, and the doctors prescribed an open-air cure, 
after I’d begun to crawl again. I was put with a lot of T. B.’s, 
if you know what that means, in a camp hospital. Not far 
off was a huge ‘camouflaged’ aerodrome and a village of hangars. 
I heard that flying men were being trained there. I used to think 
I’d give my head to get to the place, but I never hoped to do it — 
till Herter came. 

“Now I will tell you how he came — which I can freely do, 
as we are both safe in Paris, having come from somewhere 
near Compiegne. One of the first things Herter said about you 
was that you must have guessed where he was going, and more 
or less for what purpose. For that purpose he was the ideal 
man: a Lorrainer of Germanized Lorraine; German his native 
tongue — (though he hates it) — and clever as Machiavelli. He 
“escaped” from France into Germany, told a tale about killing 


344 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


a French sentry and creeping across No Man’s Land at night, in 
order to get to the German lines. It was a big risk, but Herter 
is as brave and resourceful a man as I ever met. He got the 
Bosches to believe that he was badly ill in Paris when the war 
broke out and couldn’t slip away, otherwise he’d have sprung to 
do his loyal duty to the Fatherland. He persuaded them that 
his lot being cast in France for the time, he’d resolved to serve 
Germany by spying, until he could somehow bolt across the 
frontier. He spun a specious tale about pretending to the French 
to have French sympathies, and winning the confidence of 
high-up men, by serving as a surgeon on several fronts. To 
prove his German patriotism he had notes to show, realistically 
made on thin silk paper, and hidden inside the lining of his 
coati 

“Herter’s mission in Boschland isn’t my business or yours; 
but I’m allowed to say that it was concerned with aeroplanes. 
There was something he had to find out, and he has found it 
out, or he wouldn’t be back on this side of the lines. Because he 
hoped to be among German flying-men, he hinted to you that 
he might be able to do you some service. It occurred to him 
that he might learn where my grave was and let you know. 
Nothing further was in his thoughts then — or until he happened 
to draw out a piece of unexpected information in a roundabout 
way. 

“His trick of getting across to the flying-men was smart, like 
all his tricks. The valuable (?) notes he’d brought into Germany 
mostly concerned new French and American inventions in that 
line. That was his ‘speciality.’ And when he had handed the 
notes over with explanations, he continued his programme by 
asking for a job as surgeon in a field hospital. (You see, he hoped 
to get back to France before the worthlessness of his notes was 
discovered.) When he’d proved his qualifications, he got his 
job like a shot. They were only too glad of his services. Pre- 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


345 


tending to have been in American training-camps, it was easy 
to bring up my name in a casual way. Laughing that rather 
sinister laugh of his, which you will remember, Herter told a 
couple of flying chaps he had promised a girl to find Jim Beckett’s 
grave. One of the fellows laughed too, and made a remark 
which set Herter thinking. Later, he was able to refer to 
the subject again, and learned enough to suspect that there was 
something fishy about the Bosch announcement of my death and 
burial. He tells me that, at this point, he was able to send you a 
verbal message by a consumptive prisoner about to be repatri- 
ated. Whether you got that message or not who knows? 

“His idea was to send another (in a way he won’t explain 
even to me) when he’d picked up further news. But as things 
turned out, there was no time. Besides, it wasn’t necessary. 
It looked hopeful that we might be our own carrier pigeons, or 
else — cease to exist. 

“ What happened was that Herter heard I was alive and in a 
hospital not far behind the lines. Just at this time he had got 
hold of the very secret he’d come to seek. The sooner he could 
make a dash for home the better: but if possible, he wished to 
take me with him. He had the impression that to do so would 
please his friend Miss O’Malley! How it was to be worked he 
didn’t see until an odd sort of American bombing machine fell, 
between an aerodrome it had attempted to destroy, and Herter’s 
hospital. They knew it was American, only because of its two 
occupants, both killed. The machine was considerably smashed 
up, but experts found traces of something amazingly novel, which 
they couldn’t understand. Herter was called to the scene, be- 
cause he had pretended to be up in the latest American flying 
‘stunts.’ The minute he saw the wreckage an inspiration 
jumped into his head. 

“He confessed himself puzzled by the mysterious details, 
thought them important, and said: Tt seems to me this 


846 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


resembles the engine and wings of the James Beckett invention 
I heard so much about. But I didn’t know it was far enough 
ahead yet to be in use. A pity the inventor was killed. He 
might have come in handy. 

“Well, they put those words in their pipes and smoked them — 
knowing, of course, that I was very much alive and almost 
within a stone’s throw. 

“I had always pretended not to understand German: thought 
ignorance of the language might serve my plans some day or 
other. The chap they sent to fetch me dropped a few words to a 
doctor in my hearing. And so, though I wasn’t told where I was 
being taken or why I was to go, I’d about caught on to the fact 
that I was supposed to have invented the plans for a new bombing 
biplane. That made me wonder if a friend was at work under 
the rose: and I was ready for anything when I got to the scene 
of the smash. 

“Fortunately, none of the Bosches on the spot could speak 
English fluently, and I appeared more of a fool at French than 
German. Herter — entirely trusted by his German pals — ^was 
told off to talk English with me; and a flash of his eye said, here 
was the friend ! It was only a flash, and I couldn’t be sure, but 
it put me on the qui vive, I noticed that in asking me the 
question he was told to ask, he emphasized certain words which 
needed no emphasis, and spoke them slowly, with a look that 
made me determine to fix each one in my mind. This I did, and 
putting them together when I got the chance, I made out, T 
want to get you home. Say you invented this model, and could 
put the thing in working trim.’ 

“That was a big order! If I said it and could keep my word, 
would it be a patriotic job to present the enemy with a per- 
fectly good machine, of a new make, in the place of a wreck they 
didn’t understand? This was my first thought. But the 
second reminded me of a sentence I’d constructed with some of 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 347 

the emphasized words; ‘Z want to get you home' How did he 
expect to get me home — if not by air? 

“With that I caught a glimpse of the plan, as one some- 
times catches sight of the earth through a break in massed 
clouds when flying. If the man meant to help me, I would help 
him. If he turned out a fraud, the Germans shouldn’t profit 
by his treachery I’d stop that game at the last moment, if I died 
for it! 

“You will know nothing about the new and curious bombing 
biplane of super-speed invented by Leroy Harman of Galbraith, 
Texas. But Father knows as much as any one not an expert in 
aeronautics can know. When the Government wouldn’t believe 
in Harman, Father financed him by my advice. I left home for 
France before the trial machine that was to convince officialdom 
had come into being; and I didn’t even know whether it had 
made g6<^. But the minute I saw what lay on the ground, 
surrounded by a ring of Germans, I said to myself; ‘Good old 
Leroy!* 

“I’d seen so much of his plans that they remained printed on 
my brain, and I could — if I would — set that biplane on its wings 
again almost as easily as if I had invented it. 

“Odd that the Bosches and I both trusted Herter, seeing he 
must be false to one side or other! But he’s that sort of man. 
And I always take a tip from my own instinct before listening to 
my reason. Maybe that’s why I didn’t do badly in my brief 
career as a flier. Anyhow, I played up to Herter; and I got the 
job of superintending the reconstruction of poor Harman’s 
damaged machine. It was a lovely job for a prisoner, though 
they watched me as a German cat would watch an Allied mouse. 
Herter was nearly always on the spot, however, for he’d made 
himself responsible for me. Also, he’d offered to pump me about 
what was best in the air world on my side of the water: how 
many aeroplanes of different sorts America could turn out in 


348 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


six months, etc. We contrived a cypher on diagrams I made. 
It was a clever one, but the credit was Herter’s. 

“The Bosches were waiting impatiently for my work to be 
done, in order to try out the machine, and if satisfactory, spawn 
a brood of their own on the same model. I was equally impa- 
tient. I hoped to fly off with the biplane before they had time 
to copy it! 

“A wounded Ace of theirs, Anton Hupfer, was for ever hang- 
ing round. He was to take up the ’plane when it was ready. 
But Herter industriously chummed with him, and not for no- 
thing. To Herter was due the ‘discovery’ of the inventor; 
and as he boasted experience in flying, he asked the privilege 
of being Hupfer’s companion on the trial trip. 

“The success of this trip would depend even more on the 
machine’s worth as a bomber than on her speed and climbing 
qualities. It was, therefore, to be undertaken at night, with a 
full complement of real bombs to drop upon headquarters at 
Compiegne. Herter had suggested this. Daylight wouldn’t 
have suited for a start. 

“An hour before the appointed time he dashed in upon Hupfer 
to confide that a sudden suspicion concerning me was troubling 
him. He had noticed a queer expression on my face as I gave 
the engine a last look over ! If I had done some obscure damage 
to this so new type of machine, the mechanics might not detect 
its nature. Herter didn’t wish to harm me, if his suspicion 
was unfounded, he explained, but he proposed a drastic proof 
of my good faith. I was to be hauled out of bed, and himried 
without warning to look at the biplane in her hangar. The 
mechanics were to be sent outside, there to wait for a signal to 
open the doors: this to avoid gossip if I was honest after all. 
Hupfer was to spring it on me that he’d decided to take me up 
instead of Herter. My face was to be watched as this news was 
flung at me. If I showed the slightest trace of uneasiness, it 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


349 


would be a sign that I had played a trick and feared to fall its 
victim. In that case the ‘third degree’ was to be applied until I 
owned up, and could be haled away for punishment. 

“There was just time to carry out this programme, and 
Hupfer fell for it. Herter had put me wise beforehand, and 
I knew what to expect. His real plan was to stand behind 
Hupfer, the Bosch Ace, and bash him on the head with a 
spanner, while his (Hupfer’s) whole attention was fixed on 
me. We would then undress the fellow. I would take his 
clothes, and we’d put him into mine. Hupfer’s body (stunned, 
not dead, we hoped) we would lay behind a pile of petrol tins. I 
acting as pilot, would trust to my disguise and the darkness of 
night not to be spotted when the two mechanics threw open the 
hangar doors. 

“Everything happened as we’d arranged, without a hitch 
— again, all credit to Herter! When we’d hidden the limp Ace, 
trussed up in my prison rig, Herter yelled to the waiting men, in a 
good imitation of Hupfer’s voice. We ran smoothly out of the 
hangar, and were given a fine send off. How soon the Bosches 
found out how they’d been spoofed, I don’t know. It couldn’t 
have been long though, as my prison guard was in attendance. 
The great thing was, we went up in grand style. Otherwise — but 
we needn’t now think of the ‘otherwise’ ! 

“Our next danger lay in taking the wrong direction, getting 
farther back in Boschland instead of over the frontier. I kept 
my wits, fortunately, so that turned out all right. Still, there 
remained the chance of being shot down by the French, and 
blown wnth our own bombs into kingdom come. But, by good 
luck it was a clear night. No excuse for getting lost! And 
when I was sure we were well over the French lines, I planed 
down to alight in a field. 

“The alert was out for us, of course, and a fierce barrage put 
up, but I flew high till I was ready for a dive. We’d hardly land- 


350 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


ed, when the poUus swarmed like bees, but that was what we 
wanted. You must imagine the scene that followed, till I 
can tell you by word of mouth ! 

“I shall have made my report, and have been given leavA 
to start for a visit to my family by to-morrow I hope. 

“ Yours till the end, 

“Jim.” 

“Yours till the end!” Rather a smart, cynical way of 
winding up those “exhibition pages” was it not, Padre? 
The secret translation of that signature is: “Yours, you 
brute, till I can get rid of you with least damage to my 
parents’ susceptibilities ! ” 

I shall obey, and wait for the interview. It’s like wait- 
ing to be shot at dawn I 


CHAPTER XXXII 


I PERSUADED Brian to tell Father Beckett. I wasn’t 
worthy. But the dear old man came straight to me, 
transfigured, to make me go with him to his wife, 
even before he had finished reading the letter. 

“You must come,” he said — and when Father Beckett 
says “must,” in a certain tone, one does. It’s then that 
the resemblance, more in expression than feature, between 
him and his son shines out like a light. “It will save 
mother the trouble of asking for you,” he went on, dragging 
me joyously with him, his arm round my waist. “She’d 
do that, first thing, sure! Why, do you suppose we forget 
Jim’s as much to you as to us? Haven’t you shown us 
that, every day since we met? ” 

What answer could I give? I gave none. 

Mother Beckett had been lying down for the afternoon 
iiap which by my orders she takes every day. She’d just 
vv^aked, and was sitting up on the lounge, when her hus- 
band softly opened the door to peep in. The only light 
was firelight, leaping in an open grate. 

“Come in, come in!” she greeted us in her silver tinkle 
of a voice. “Oh, you didn’t disturb me. I was awake. I 
thought I’d ring for tea. But I didn’t after all. I’d had 
such a beautiful dream, I hated to come out of it.” 

“I bet it was a dream about Jim!” said Father Beckett. 
He drew me into the room, and the little lady pulled me 
S51 


S52 


EVERYMAN’S LAND ^ 

down beside her on the wide, cushiony lounge. Her hus- 
band’s special arm-chair was close by, but he didn’t sub- 
side into it as usual at this cosy hour of the afternoon. 
Instead, he knelt stiffly down on one knee, and took the 
tiny, ringed hand held out to him. “You wouldn’t think 
a dream beautiful, unless Jim was in it ! ” 

“Yes I would, if you were in it, dear,” she reproached 
him. “Or Molly. But Jim was in this dream. I saw 
him as plainly as I see you both. He walked in at the door, 
the way he used to do at home, saying: ‘Hello, Mother, I’ve 
been looking for you everywhere!’ You know. Father 
how you and Jimmy used to feel injured if you called me 
and I couldn’t be found in a minute. In this dream though, 
we didn’t seem to be back home. I wasn’t sure where we 

were: only — I was sure ” She stopped, with a catch in 

her voice. But Father Beckett took up the sentence where 
she let it drop. “Sure of Jim? ” 

“ Yes. He was so real ! ” 

“Well then. Mother darling, I guess the dream ought not 
to have been back home, but here, in this very house. For 
here’s where Jim will come.” 

“Oh, I do feel that!” she agreed, trying to “camouflage* 
a tear with a smile. “ Jim’s with me all the time.” 

“Not yet,” said Father Beckett, with a stolid gentleness. 
“Not yet. Not the real Jim. But he’ll come.” 

“You mean, when Molly and I’ve flnished putting out 
all his treasures in the den, just as he’d like to see them? ” 
“He might come before you get the den ready. He 
might come — any day now — even to-morrow.” The 
gnarled brown hand smoothed the small, shrivelled white 
one with nervous strokes and passes. 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


353 


'‘Father!” she sat up suddenly, straight and rigid among 
her cushions. “You’ve heard — ^you’re trying to break 
something to me. Tell me right out. Jim’s alive ! ” 

She snatched her hand free, and bending forward, flung 
both arms round the old man’s neck before he could 
answer. I sprang up to give them room. I thought 
they had forgotten me. But no. Out came Father Beck- 
ett’s big hand to snatch my dress. 

“This child got the news — a letter,” he explained. 
“The boy was afraid of tjie shock for us. He thought 
she ” 

“A shock of joy — ^why, that gives life — ^not death!” 
sobbed and laughed Mother Beckett. “But it was right 
to let Molly know first. She’s more to him than we are 
now. Oh, Father — Father — our Jim’s alive — alive / I 
think in my soul I knew it all the time. I never felt he 
was gone. He must have sent me thoughts. Dear ones, 
I want to pray. I want to thank God — now, this instant, 
before I hear more — before I read the letter. We three 
together — on our knees ! ” 

Padre, when I was on my knees, with the thin little arm 
of Jim’s mother thrilling my shoulder, my face hidden in 
the cushions, I could only say: “God, forgive!” and echo 
the thanksgiving of those two loving hearts. I didn’t 
pray not to be punished. I almost want to be punished — 
since Brian is safe, and my punishment can’t spoil his 
future. 

The patriotic Becketts have given up the big gray car, 
now they’ve settled down at the Chateau d’Andelle: and 
our one-legged soldier-chauffeur has departed, to conduct 


354 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


a military motor. For the moment there’s only the 
0 ’Farrell Red Cross taxi, not yet gone about its legiti- 
mate business; so it was Julian who took Father Beckett 
to the far-off railway station, to meet Jim Beckett the next 
day but one — ^Julian — of all people on earth ! 

Father Beckett begged me to be of the party, and 
Mother Beckett — too frail still for so long and cold a 
drive — spiled up her persuasions. But I was firm. I 
didn’t like going to meet trains, I said. It was prosaic. 
I was allowed to stop at home, therefore, with my dear 
little lady: the last time, I told myself, that she would 
ever love and “mother” me. Once Jim and I had settled 
our affairs in that “interview” I was ordered to wait for, 
I should be the black sheep, turned out of the fold. 

There was just one reason why I’d have liked to be in the 
car to bring Jim back from the station. Knowing Julian- 
Puck, I was convinced that despite Father Beckett’s pre- 
sence he’d contrive a chance to thrust some entering wedge 
of mischief into Jim Beckett’s head. Not that it was 
needed! If he’d read the first pages of Jim’s letter — the 
secret pages — he would have known that. But the night 
the great news came to the chateau, he whispered into 
my ear: “You seem to be taking things easy. Sure you 
won’t change your mind and bolt with me? — or do you 
count on your invincible charm, “ aZZes” f 

I didn’t even answer. I merely looked. Perhaps he 
took it for a defiant look, though Heaven knows it wasn’t. 
I was past defiance. In any case, such as the look was, it 
shut him up. And after that the brooding storm behind 
his eyes made me wonder (when I’d time to think of it) 
what coup he was meditating. There would never be a 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


355 


chance like the chance at the station before Jim had met 
me. Julian was sharp enough, dramatic enough to see 
that. I pictured him somehow corralling Jim for an 
instant, while Father Beckett carried on a conversation 
of signs with a worried porteuse. Julian would be able 
to do in an instant as much damage to a character as most 
men could do in an hour! 

A little added disgust for me on Jim’s part, however, 
what could it matter? I tried to argue. When a thing is 
already black, can it be painted blacker? 

Still, I was foolish enough to wish that our good old one- 
legged soldier might have stayed to bring Jim home. 

Mother Beckett would have compelled me to be with 
her at the open door to meet “our darling boy,” but that 
I could not bear. It would be as trying for him as for me, 
and I had to spare him the ordeal at any price. 

“Don’t make me do that.” I begged, with real tears in 
my voice. “I — I’ve set my heart on seeing Jim for the 
first time alone. He wants it too — I know he does.” 

She gazed at me for some long seconds, with the clear 
blue eyes which seemed — though only seemed! — to read 
my soul. In reality she saw quite another soul than mine. 
The darhng crystallizes to radiant beauty all souls of 
those she loves, as objects are crystallized by frost, or by 
sparkling salt in a salt mine. 

“Well, you must have a good and loving reason, I’m 
sure. And probably your love has taught you to know 
better than I can,what Jim would want you to do,”(she said. 
“It shall be just as you wish, dear. Only you must grant 
one httle favour in return to please me. You are to wait 


S56 


EVERYMAN’S I.AND 


for Jim in the den. When his Father and I have hugged 
and kissed him a few times, and made certain he’s not one 
of my dreams, we’ll lead him up to that door, and leave 
him outside. It shall be my hand that shuts the door when 
he’s gone in. And I shan’t tell him one word about the den. 
It shall be a surprise. But he won’t notice a thing until — 
until you and he have been together for a while, I guess — 
not even the hobby-horse ! He’ll see nothing except you, 
Molly — yon 

I implored — I argued — in vain. The making of the den 
had been her inspiration. It was monstrous that I should 
have to greet her son there. The pleasure of the den- 
surprise would be for ever spoilt for Jim. But I couldn’t 
explain that to his mother. I had to yield at last, tongue- 
tied and miserable beyond words. 

‘T haven’t described the den to you. Padre. I will do it 
now, in the pause, the hush, before the storm. 

It’s a quaint room, with a little round tower in each of 
the two front corners. One of these Mother Beckett has 
turned into a refuge for broken-down toys, all Jim’s early 
favourites, which he’d never let her throw away: the 
famous spotted hobby-horse starred in the centre of the 
stage: oh, but a noble, red-nostrilled beast, whose eternal 
prance has something of the endless dignity of the Laocobn ! 
The second tower is a miniature library, whose shelves 
are crowded with the pet books of Jim’s boyhood — queer 
books, some of them, for a child to choose: “Byron,” 
“Letters of Pliny,” Plutarch’s “Lives,” Gibbon’s 
“Rome,” “Morte d’Arthur,” Maeterlinck’s “Life of the 
Bee,” Kingsland’s “Scientific Idealism,” with several quite 
learned volumes of astronomy and geology, side by side 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


357 


with Gulliver and all kinds of travel and story-books 
which we have most of us adored. It was I who had 
the task of sorting and arranging this motley collection, 
and I can hardly tell you, Padre, how I loved doing it ! 

The room isn’t large, so the ten or twelve pictures on the 
walls are not lost in a desert of bare spaces. These pic- 
tures, the toys, the books, tennis-rackets, golf-clubs and 
two lovely old Persian prayer-rugs are all of Jim’s treasures 
brought to France. He must have been a boy of individ- 
ual, independent nature, for it seems he disliked the 
idea of killing things for pleasure, and was never a hunter 
or even a fisherman. Consequently, there are no monster 
fish under glass, or rare birds or butterflies, or stuffed 
animals. He must have loved wild creatures though, for 
five of the beloved pictures are masterly oil-paintings by 
well-known artists, of lions and tigers and stags, chez eux, 
happy and at home, not being hunted, or standing agonized 
at bay. Oh, getting this den in order has taught me more 
about the real Jim than a girl can learn about a man in 
ordinary acquaintance in a year! But then I had a won- 
derful foundation to begin building upon: that day in the 
rose-arbour — the red-rose day of my life. 

Well, when the car was expected back from the station, 
bringing Jim home to his mother, I went by her command 
to the den. Even that was better than having to meet 
him in the presence of those two dear souls who trusted 
and loved me only second to him. And yet everything in 
the den which had meant something in Jim’s life, seemed to 
cry out at me, as I shut the door and stood alone with them 
— and my pounding heart — to wait. 

I didn’t know how to make the time pass. I was too 


S58 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


restless to sit down. I wouldn’t let myself look out of the 
window to see the car come along the drive. I dared not 
walk up and down like the caged thing I was, lest the floor 
should creak, for the tower-room — the den — is over the 
entrance-hall. I felt like a hunted animal — I, the one 
creature to whom Jim Beckett deliberately meant to be 
cruel! I, in this room which was a tribute to his kindness 
of heart, his faithfulness, his loyalty! But why should it 
not be so? I had no right to call upon these qualities of 
his. 

The horn of the little Red Cross taxi! It must be 
turning in at the gate. How well I knew its gay, con- 
ceited tootle! An eighth of a mile, and the car would 
reach the house. Even the poor worn-out taxi couldn’t 
be five minutes doing that ! . . . 

If I ran to the window between the towers I could see! 
No, I wouldn’t; I couldnH. I should scream — or faint — 
or do something else idiotic, if I saw Jim Beckett getting 
out of the car, and his mother flying to meet him. I had 
never felt like this in my whole life — not in any suspense, 
not in any danger. 

Instinctively I walked as far from the window as I could. 
I sought sanctuary under Brian’s cathedral picture — the 
picture that had introduced me to Jim. Yes, sanctuary I 
sought, for in that room my brother’s work was my one 
excuse to intrude ! 

By this time the car must have arrived. The front door 
must have flown open in welcome. Now Mother Beckett 
must be crying tears of joy in the arms of her son. Father 
Beckett gazing at the blessed sight, speechless with 
ecstasy ! 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


359 


What should I be doing at this moment, if I had yielded 
to their wish and stopped downstairs with them? Just 
how far would Jim have gone in keeping up the tragic 
farce? Would he have kissed me? Would he ? 

The vision was so blazing bright that I covered my eyes 
to shut it out. Not that I hated it. Oh no, I loved it too 
well! 

So, for a while, I stood, my hands pressed over my eyes, 
my ears strained to catch distant sounds — ^yet wishing not 
to hear. Suddenly, close by, there came the click of a 
latch. My hands dropped like broken clock weights. I 
opened my eyes. Jim Beckett was in the room, and the 
door was shut. 



CHAPTER XXXIII 

I STARED, fascinated. Here was Jim-of-the-rose- 
arbour, and a new Jim-of-the-war — a browner, 
thinner, sterner Jim, a Jim that looked at me with 
a look I could not read. It may have been cruel, but it 
was not cold, and it pierced like a hot sword-blade through 
my flesh into my soul. 

“Fow — after all!” he said. The remembered voice I 
had so often heard in dreams, struck on my nerves like a 
hand on the strings of a harp. I felt the vibration thrill 
through me. 

“Yes — it’s I.” The answer came in a whisper from 
dry lips. “ I’m sorry ! ” 

“ What are you sorry for? Because you are you ? ” 

“ It wouldn’t be — quite so horrible if — I’d been a stran- 
ger.” 

“You think not?” 

“I — it seems as if I took advantage of — oh, that’s just 

what I did ! I’m not asking you to forgive me ” 

“It isn’t so much a question of forgiving, as putting 

things straight. We must put them straight ” 

“I’ll do whatever you wish,” I promised. “Only — let 
me go soon.” 

“Are you afraid of me?” There was sharpness in his 
tone. 

“Not afraid. I am — utterly humiliated.” 

360 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 361 

“Why did you do this — thing? Let’s have that out 
first.” 

“The thought came into my head when I was at my wits’ 
end — ^for my brother. Not that that’s an excuse ! ” 

“I’m not worrying about excuses. It’s explanations I 
need, I had my own theories — thinking it all over — and 
wondering — ^whether it would be you or a stranger I 
should find. The name was the one thing I had to go on: 
‘O’Malley’ and its likeness to Ommalee. That was the 
way I heard your name pronounced, you know, when we 
met. I was coming back to see you and make sure. But 
I was laid up in Paris with an attack of typhoid. Per- 
haps Mother told you?” 

“Yes. But please, let us not talk of that! There isn’t 
much time. You’ll have to go back to Path — to Mr. and 
Mrs. Beckett. Tell me quickly what you want me to 
do.” 

“I was forgetting for a minute. You look very pale. 
Miss O’Malley. Hadn’t you better sit down? ” 

“No, thank you. I like standing — where I am.” 

“Ah!” he gave a sudden exclamation. At last he had 
seen Brian’s sketch. He had not noticed it, or any of the 
“den treasures,” before. He had looked only at me. 

“Why — it’s /depicture! And — Gee!” — his eyes travel- 
led round the room — “all my dear old things! What a 
mother I’ve got!” He gazed about during a full minute 
of silence, then turned abruptly back to me. “You love 
her — don’t you?” 

“Who could help loving her? ” 

“And the dear old Governor — ^you’re fond of him? ” 

“I should be even worse than I am, if I didn’t adore 


set EVERYMAN’S LAND 

them both. They have been — angels to me and my 
brother.” 

“I’m told that you and he have been something of the 
same sort to them.” 

“Oh, they would speak kindly of us, of course! — 
They’re so noble, themselves, they judge ” 

“It was another person who told me the particular thing 
I’m thinking of now.” 

“Another person? Doctor Paul, I suppose.” 

“You must guess again. Miss O’Malley.” 

“I can’t think of any one else who would ” 

“What about your friend, Mr. O’Farrell? ” 

“He’s not my friend!” I cried. “Oh, I knew he’c! 
somehow contrive a chance to talk to you alone, about 
me!” 

“He certainly did. And what he said impressed me a 
good deal.” 

“Most likely it’s untrue.” 

“ Too likely ! I’m very anxious to find out from head- 
quarters if it’s true or not.” 

“If you ask me. I’ll answer honestly. I can’t and won’t 
lie to you.” 

“I’ll take you at your word and ask you — in a minute. 
You may be angry when I do. But — it will save time. 
It’ll clear up all my difficulties at one fell swoop.” 

“Why wait a minute, then?” I ventured, with faint 
bitterness, because his “difficulties” seemed so small com- 
pared with mine. He was in the right in everything. 
This was his home. The dear Becketts were his people- 
All the world was his. 

“I wait a minute, because something has to be told you 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


363 


before I can ask you to answer any more questions. When 
I didn’t know who or what my — er — official fiancee would 
turn out to be, this was the plan I made, to save my 
parents’ feelings — and yours. I thought that, when we’d 
had the interview I asked you to give me, we could 
manage to quarrel, or discover that we didn’t like each 
other as well as before. We could break off our engage- 
ment, and Father and Mother need never know — how it 
began.” 

“A very generous idea of yours!” I cried, the blood so 
hot in my cheeks that it forced tears to my eyes. “It had 
occurred to me, too, that for their sakes we might manage 
that way. Thank you, Mr. Beckett, for sparing me the 
pain — I deserve. I couldn’t have dared hope for such a 
happy solution ” 

“Couldn’t you?” 

“No. I ” 

“Well, I’m hoping for an even happier one — a lot hap- 
pier. But of course it depends on what you say to Mr. 
O’Farrell’s — accusation.” 

“He — made an accusation? ” 

“Listen, and tell me what you’d call it. He said you 
told him at Amiens, when he asked you to marry him, that 
— you loved me.” 

“Oh!” 

“Is it true?” 

“Yes, I did tell him that ” 

“I mean, is it true that you’ve loved me? ” 

“Mr. Beckett, after all, you are cruel! You’re punish- 
ing me very hard.” 

“I don’t wish to ‘punish you hard’ — or at all. Why am 


364 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


I ‘cruel,’ simply asking if it’s true that you’ve loved me? 
Of course, when Mother told you of my fever, and what 
I’d said of this cathedral picture, she told you that I was 
dead in love with ‘the Girl,’ as I called you, and just about 
crazy because I’d lost her. Why shouldn’t you have loved 
me a little bit — say, the hundredth part as much as I loved 
you? I’m not a monster, am I? And we both had exactly 
the same length of time to fall in love — whole hours on 
end. Cruel or not cruel, I’ve got to know. Was it the 
truth you told the O’Farrell man? ” 

I could not speak. I didn’t try to speak. I looked up 
at him. It must have been some such look as the Princess 
gave St. George when he appeared at the last minute, to 
rescue her from the dragon. The tears I’d been holding 
back splashed over my cheeks. Jim gave a low cry of pity 
• — or love (it sounded like love) as he saw them; and the 
next thing, he was kissing them away. I was in his arms 
so closely held that my breath was crushed out of my 
lungs. I wanted to sob. But how can you sob without 
breath? I could only let him kiss me on cheeks, and eyes, 
and mouth, and kiss him back again, with eager haste, lest 
I should wake up to find he had loved me for a fleeting in- 
stant, in a divine dream. 

When he let me breathe for a second, I gasped that, of 
course, it couldn't be true, this wonderful thing that was 
happening? 

“I’ve dreamed of you — a hundred times,” I stammered. 
“Waking dreams — sleeping dreams. They’ve seemed as 
real — almost as real — as this.” 

“Did I kiss you like this, in the dreams? ” 

“Sometimes. But not in the realest ones. It never 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


365 


seemed real that you could care, in spite of all— that you’d 

forgive me, if you should come back ” 

“Did you want me to come? ” 

“Oh, ‘want’ isn’t the word to express it ! ” 

“Even though you dreaded — being found out ! ” 

“That didn’t count, against having you alive, and know- 
ing you were in the world — if only for your parents’ sake. 
I wanted them to be happy, more than I wanted anything 
for myself except Brian’s good. I had you for my own, 
in my dreams, while you were dead, and I expected to 

lose you if you were alive. But ” 

“You really expected that?” 

“Oh, indeed, yes!” 

“Although you knew from Mother how I’d loved you, 
and searched for you? ” 

“You thought I was good — then.” 

“I think so now.” 

“But you can’t! You know what a wicked, wicked 
wretch I was! Why, when you came into this room and 

looked at me, I saw how you felt ! And your letter ” 

“Don’t you understand, I was testing you? If you 
hadn’t cared for me, what you did might have been— 
(only ‘might’, mind you, for what man can judge a girl’s 
heart?) what you did to my people might have been cruel 
and calculating. I had to find out the truth of things, be- 
fore letting myself go. The letter was written to let a 
stranger see — if you turned out to be a stranger — ^what to 
expect. But O’Farrell made me sure in a minute, that the 
girl here must be my Girl. After that, I’d only to see 
you — to ask if he told the truth — to watch your face — 
your precious, beautiful face! I thought of it and pic- 


366 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


tured it. But I never thought of those tears? Forgive 
me, my darling, for making them come. If you’ll let me 
love you all your life, they shall be the last I’ll ever cause.” 

I laughed, and cried a little more, at the same time. 
“ What a word from you to me — 'Forgive* ! ” 

“Well, it’s more suitable than from you to me, because 
there’s nothing you could do that I wouldn’t forgive before 
you did it, or even be sure it was just the one right thing to 
do. My Girl — my lost, found love — do you suppose it 
was of your own accord you came to my people and said you 
belonged to me? No. It was the Great Power that’s in 
us all, which made you do what you did — the Power they 
call Providence. You understand now what I meant, 
when I said that one question from me and an answer from 
you, would smooth away all my diflficulties at once? Bless 
that O’Farrell fellow! ” 

I’d never thought to bless Julian O’Farrell, but now I 
willingly agreed. Sometimes, dimly, I had divined latent 
goodness in him, as one divines vague, lovely shapes float- 
ing under dark depths of water. And he had said once 
that love for me was bringing out qualities he hadn’t 
credited himself with possessing. I had taken that as one 
of Puck’s pleasantries! But I knew the true inwardness 
of him now, as I had learned to know the true inward- 
ness of Dierdre. Julian had had his chance to hurt me 
with his rival. He had used it instead to do me good. He 
had laughed the other day, “Well, I’ll always be something 
to you anyhow, if only a brother-in-law.” But now, he 
would be more than that, even if he went out of my life, 
and I never saw him again. 

“Bless O’Farrell. Bless Providence. Bless you. Bless 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


867 


me. Bless everybody and everything!” Jim was going 
on, joyfully exploding, still clasping me in his arms; for 
we clung as if to let each other go might be to lose one 
another forever! “How happy Mother dear — and the 
good old Governor are going to be! They absolutely 
adore you!” 

“ Did they say so? ” 

“They did. And almost hustled me into this room to 
meet you. I’m glad the best thing in my life has come 
to me here, among all the odds and ends of my childhood 
and youth, that I call my treasures! Of course Mother 
planned it specially that you should welcome me here.” 

“Yes, the darUng! But it seemed to me a terrible 
plan. I thought you’d hate me so, I’d spoil the surprise 
of the room for you.” 

Those words were uttered with the last breath he let me 
draw for some time. But oh. Padre, if it had beenmy last 
on earth, how well worth while it would have been to live 
just till that minute, and no longer! I am so happy! I 
don’t know how I am going to deserve this forgiveness, 
this deliverance, this joy ! 

“Even if I’d found a strange girl looking after my 
parents and saving their lives and winning their love, it 
would have been pretty diflScult to chuck her,” Jim was 
laughing. “You, on this side of the door, waiting to face 
the ogre Me, couldn’t have felt much worse than I felt on 
my side, not knowing what I should see — or do. Darling, 
one more kiss for my people’s sake, one more for myself, 
and then I must take you to them. It’s not fair to keep 
them waiting any longer. But no — ^first I must put a ring 
on the Girl’s finger — as I hoped to do long ago. You re- 


368 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


member — the ring of my bet, that almost made me lose 
you? I told you about it, didn’t I, on our day together, 
when I thought I should come back in two weeks?” 

“You told me you hoped not to lose a thing you want- 
ed. You didn’t say it was a ring. But at Royalieu — 
the newspaper correspondents’ chateau near Compiegne — 
we came across a friend of yours, the one you made the 
bet with ” 

“Jack Curtis!” 

“Yes. He told me about the ring. And he was sure 
you were alive.” 

“ Good old Jack ! Well, now I’m going to slip that magic 
ring on your darling finger — the ‘engaged’ finger.” 

“But where is it?” 

“The finger? Just now on the back of my neck^ which 
it’s making throb — like a star! . . . Oh, the ring ? 

That’s in the hobby-horse which I see over there, as large 
as life. At least, it’s in him unless, unlike a leopard, he’s 
changed his spots.” 

Jim wouldn’t let me go, but drew me with him, our arms 
interlaced, to the tower end of the room where the hobby- 
horse he had once rescued from fire endlessly pranced. 
“This used to be my bank, when I was a little chap,” he 
said. “Like a magpie, I always hid the things I valued 
most in a hole I made under the third smudge to the left, 
on Spot Cash’s breast. ‘Spot Cash’ is the old boy’s 
name, you know! When I won the bet and took the ring 
home, I had a fancy to keep it in this hidie hole, for luck, 
till I could find the Girl. Mother knew. She was with 
me at the time. But I was half ashamed of myself for my 
childishness, and asked her not to tell — not even the 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


369 


Governor. I shouldn’t wonder if that was why it occurred 
to her to pack up my treasures for France. Maybe she 
had a prophetic soul, and thought, if I found the Girl, I 
should want to lay my hand on the ring. Here it is, safe 
and sound.” 

As he spoke, he had somehow contrived to extract a par- 
ticularly black smudge from the region of the hobby- 
horse’s heart. It came out with a block of wood under- 
neath, and left a gap which gave Spot Cash the effect of 
having suffered an operation. At the back of the cavity 
a second hole, leading downward, had been burrowed in 
the softish wood; and in this reposed a screwed-up wad 
of tissue paper. Jim hooked the tiny packet out with a 
finger, opened the paper as casually as though it enclosed a 
pebble, and brought to the light (which found and flashed 
to the depths of a large blue diamond) a quaintly fashioned 
ring of greenish gold. 

“This belonged to the most beautiful woman of a day 
that’s past,” Jim said. “Now, it’s for the most beautiful 
woman of a better day and a still grander to-morrow. 
May I wish it on your finger — with the greatest wish in 
the world?” 

I gave him my hand — ^for the ring, and for all time. 

One more moment in his arms, and he opened the door, 
to take “his Girl ” to Father and Mother Beckett. 

Somewhere in the distance Julian O’Farrell was singing, 
as he had sung on the first night we met, Mario’s heart- 
breaking song in “La Tosca” — the song on the roof, at 
dawn. Always in remembering Julian I must remember 
Mario’s love and sacrifice! I knew that he meant it 
should be so with me. 


370 


EVERYMAN’S LAND 


The voice was the voice of love itself, such love as mine 
for Jim, as Jim’s for me, which can never die. It made me 
sad and happy at the same time. But, as Jim and I paused 
at the door to hsten, hand in hand, the music changed. 
Julian began to sing something new and strangely beauti- 
ful — a song he has composed, and dedicated to Brian. 
I was sad no longer, for this is a song of courage and 
triumph. He calls it: “Everyman’s Land.” 


THH END 


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